' 


THE  FAIR 
IRISH  MAID 


BY 

JUSTIN  HUNTLY  McCARTHY 

AUTHOR   OF 

"IF  I  WERE  KING"  "SERAPHICA" 
"THE  GORGEOUS  BORGIA"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK  AND    LONDON 

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MCMZI 


BOOKS  BY 
JUSTIN  HUNTLY  McCARTHY 

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CONTENTS 

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BOOK  I 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  DREAMS  IN  THE  KINGDOM 
OF  KERRY 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  MAID  IN  THE  MIST       ......  i 

II.  VOICES     .............  8 

III.  MY  LORD  CLOYNE    .........  16 

IV.  THE  PARLIAMENT-MAN       .......  24 

V.  "BARREN,  BARREN,  BEGGARS  ALL"    ...  41 

VI.  SOME  STATISTICS       .........  52 

VII.  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  FIDDLE     .....  59 

VIII.  THE  TIROWENS    ..........  68 

IX.  JOURNEYS  START  IN  LOVERS'  PARTING    .     .  79 

X.  THE  SOUL  OF  ERIN      .    .......  91 

XI.  THE  DOUBBLES  —  BARON  ET  FEMME    ...  97 

XII.  THE  MAN  FROM  ATLANTIS    •.."....  107 

XIII.  LORD  CLOYNE  is  SURPRISED      .....  124 

XIV.  METAMORPHOSIS   .....    .....  136 

BOOK  II 
THE  SOUL  OF  ERIN  IN  ST.  JAMES'S  SQUARE 

I.  BUTTERFLY-BIRTH   .........  143 

II.  THE  COMET  OF  FIFTEEN     .....    .147 

III.  THE  LITTLE  QUEEN  ........  152 

iii 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

IV.  A  PRIVATE  SECRETARY 160 

V.  FEASTS  AND  SUPPERS  OF  THE  GODS     .     .  167 

VI.  THE  GREAT  MR.  HERITAGE 174 

VII.  A  POSSIBLE  CLUE       184 

VIII.  Music  THE  FOOD  OF  LOVE 191 

IX.  MOODY  FOOD 198 

X.  I  WON'T  MARRY  You,  MY  PRETTY  MAID  210 

XI.  A  TALE  OF  A  WAGER 218 

XII.  A  CHANGE  OF  CLOTHES 226 

XIII.  THE  DINNER  PARTY        235 

XIV.  THE  UNBURIED  CITY 247 

XV.  RECOGNITION  OF  GENIUS 252 

XVI.  MR.  RUBIE  SAYS  His  SAY       259 

XVII.  CAPTAIN  CURTIUS  PROPOSES 266 

XVIII.  WISDOM  IN  THE  CAN 274 

BOOK  III 
THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING 

I.  IN   THE    ROTUNDO 29! 

II.  PAR  NOBILE  FRATRUM 297 

III.  TOWN  TALK       304 

IV.  THE  INSULT  TO  POET  CRINCH     .     .     .     .  314 

V.  A  ROMAN  HOLIDAY 323 

VI.  MR.  HERITAGE'S  VISITOR 330 

VII.  NEWS  INDEED 336 

VIII.  MR.  POINTDEXTER'S  "HEY,  PRESTO!"   .     .  344 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 


THE    FAIR   IRISH   MAID 


THE   MAID    IN    THE    MIST 


OVER  the  soft  greenness  of  the  Kerry  head- 
lands, over  the  sober  grayness  of  the  Atlantic 
sea,  a  thick  mist  prevailed.  Its  fine  whiteness 
blurred  all  things  out  of  custom,  tempering  harsh 
and  familiar  objects,  as  cabin  shoulder  or  haystack 
hump,  to  a  subtle  tenuity  of  texture  and  outline 
that  gave  them  a  sweetness  and  strangeness  akin 
to  the  rare  visions  of  delicate  dreams,  melting  them 
into  castle  and  palace  and  pagoda  of  fairy-land 
with  an  elfish  ease.  In  that  mother-of-pearl  atmos- 
phere the  islands  that  jeweled  the  waves  between 
the  horns  of  the  bay  and  flamed  with  splendor  of 
emeralds  whenever  the  glow  of  sunlight  quickened 
them,  now  faded,  like  waning  lamps,  one  after 
another,  into  the  enmeshing  dimness,  were,  as  it 
seemed,  absorbed  into  the  wanness  of  the  lost  king- 
dom that  was  supposed  to  lie  beneath  those  waters. 
Shore  and  ocean  alike  surrendered  vitality  and 
I 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

vividness  to  the  pensive,  dissimulating  pall  of 
vapor.  Ship  and  boat  and  sea-bird,  stock  and  stone 
and  tree  yielded  to  its  smooth,  irresistible  persist- 
ence, allowing  it  to  muffle  the  hunger  and  thirst 
of  the  land  and  the  loneliness  of  the  Way  of  the 
Wild  Geese  in  clinging,  shifting  films  of  mystery. 
Nothing  could  resist  the  lulling,  obliterating  in- 
fluence of  the  mist.  It  flung  final  destruction  on 
the  gaunt  remains  of  the  ancient  church,  the  church 
that  in  its  greatness  of  the  long  ago  had  sent  the 
treasure  of  its  eloquence  and  the  splendor  of  its 
wisdom  to  uplift  and  civilize  England  and  Germany 
and  Gaul,  the  church  that  had  been  harried  by  the 
Dane  and  harried  by  the  Norman,  and  that  had 
rallied  from  each  harrying  to  fall  at  last  before  the 
Ironsides  of  Cromwell.  Stealthily  now  the  haze 
absorbed  it,  licking  up  crumbling  arch  and  shat- 
tered chancel,  leaving  nothing  visible  of  the  little 
that  man  had  suffered  to  stand.  Even  the  Round 
Tower,  the  high,  white  Round  Tower,  that  watched 
by  the  ruins  of  the  church  as  erect  a  sentinel  as  it 
had  watched  over  its  glories,  the  Round  Tower  that 
was  the  pride  of  the  country-side,  even  the  Round 
Tower  seemed  to  thaw,  to  dissolve,  to  melt,  to 
cease  a  fierce  age-long,  firmly  defined  existence,  and 
to  become  slender  and  pendulous  as  the  waving, 
airy  dwelling  of  the  impalpable  fairies  that  poise 
on  the  swaying  heads  of  hoary  dandelions  or  float 
on  the  flying  thistledown  and  glide  along  the  shining 
strings  of  gossamer. 


THE    MAID    IN    THE    MIST 

Slowly,  steadily,  surely,  the  gloom  deepened.  It 
could  not  be  said  to  darken,  because  it  was  so 
steadily  white,  but  the  blackest  night  that  ever 
brooded  over  a  sleeping  world  could  not  have  been 
more  triumphant  in  its  obliteration  of  the  things 
that  mean  life  to  the  living.  Here  was  one  of  Na- 
ture's conquests,  one  of  her  assertions  of  her  final 
supremacy  over  the  pride  and  the  desire  of  man. 
In  the  awe  of  its  quietude,  in  the  hush  of  its  cer- 
tainty, it  seemed  to  envelop  and  control  the  earth 
with  the  finality  of  the  Dusk  of  Gods.  Surely  it 
would  seem  that  when  that  veil  lifted,  if  ever  it  did 
lift,  it  would  reveal  nothing  better  than  a  world  re- 
turned to  the  tragedy  of  the  arctic  past.  Kingdoms 
and  civilizations,  imperial  cities,  and  thrifty  villages 
must  surely  be  reduced,  one  and  all,  to  a  little 
glacial  dust;  nothing  remaining  of  all  the  pomp 
and  luxury  and  ardor  and  hot  blood  but  a  frozen 
sea  shuddering  against  a  frozen  land,  the  sea  and 
the  land  alike  no  more  than  the  cemetery  of  the 
ages,  the  grave  of  the  tale  of  man. 

The  mist  was  the  most  ruthless  of  conquerors. 
It  seemed  to  annihilate  the  body,  it  seemed  to  dissi- 
pate the  soul.  Its  chill  impenetrability  was  more 
triumphant  than  any  swords  that  could  slay  the 
flesh,  than  any  words  that  could  kill  the  mind. 

You  might  have  the  hand  of  a  master,  the  heart 

of  a  hero,  the  brain  of  a  genius,  but  in  the  controlling 

nullity  of  that  gloom  hand,  heart  and  brain  alike 

seemed  helpless.     To  be  caught  in  the  toils  of  such 

3 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

an  atmosphere  was  to  feel  lost  forever  to  warmth 
and  color  and  cheer,  to  mirth  and  passion  and  appe- 
tite, to  become,  as  it  were,  a  formless  prisoner  in  a 
formless  prison,  doomed  to  such  an  eternity  of  gray- 
ness  as  the  ancients  imagined  to  hover  over  the 
weary  fields  of  Dis. 

A  philosopher  sitting  on  that  hilltop  and  peering 
through  the  encircling  drifts  might  very  well  shiver 
at  such  dreary  images  and  seek  to  reassure  himself 
by  an  insistent  recollection  of  the  realities  that  lay 
beyond  the  milky  clouds  that  shifted  about  him. 
Somewhere  behind  him  in  the  obscurity  lay  the 
dominant  island,  presumably  proud  of  the  still 
raw-new  union,  no  more  than  fifteen  years  wasted 
since  the  infancy  of  its  birth;  presumably  pleased 
with  its  plump  and  periwigged  Prince  Regent;  very 
certainly  rejoicing  to  have  held  its  own,  and  more 
than  held  its  own,  with  that  living  incarnation  of  the 
Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air,  who  now  sulked, 
a  tethered  eagle,  diminished  to  the  empire  of  the 
island  called  Elba.  Away  to  the  sage's  left  stretches 
the  acreage  of  the  kingdom  that  had  been  so  lately 
the  dominion  of  the  same  Prince  of  the  Power  of 
the  Air,  the  land  that  had  once  been  France  and  that 
had  sought  to  swell  immeasurably  and  name  itself 
the  world  under  the  spur  of  a  short,  stout,  pale 
Italianate  adventurer  that  carried  the  crown  of 
Charlemagne  on  his  high  forehead;  and  that  now 
was  France  again  and  Bourbon — nothing  changed, 
only  one  Frenchman  the  more.  Straightaway  in 
4 


THE    MAID    IN    THE    MIST 

front,  thousands  of  salt  miles  away,  Utopia  lies 
hidden;  Utopia,  Atlantis,  the  Land  East  of  the  Sun, 
West  of  the  Moon,  Cocaigne  Country,  Lubberland, 
the  Country  of  Youth,  the  Realm  of  Heart's  Desire, 
where  all  men  were  free  and  ate  hominy,  where  all 
men  were  equal  and  munched  pumpkin-pie,  where 
all  men  had  a  like  chance  to  be  chosen  President  of 
the  greatest  republic  since  Rome,  and  where  all 
men  were  supposed  to  find  delight  in  the  whittling  of 
sticks  and  the  chewing  of  niggerhead.  At  the  hour 
the  philosopher  might  consider  that  very  likely 
the  drums  of  war  were  still  rolling  and  the  flags  of 
war  still  flying  even  in  that  enchanted  land,  though 
the  hands  of  peace  had  been  clasped  at  Ghent  and 
the  second  struggle  between  mother  and  child  was 
diplomatically  at  an  end.  The  philosopher,  the 
dreamer,  might  well  be  tempted  to  believe  that  with 
Caesar  caged  in  Elba  and  such  amends  as  might 
be  made  for  a  Washington  in  flames,  the  mist  when 
it  lifted  would  be  as  the  curtain  disclosing  a  well- 
staged  allegory  of  perpetual  peace. 

As  it  happened,  there  was  no  philosopher  on  that 
headland,  but  there  was  indeed  a  dreamer  lying  on 
the  soft,  wet  grass,  dreaming  tinted  dreams  in  the 
thick  of  the  mist.  Yet  the  dreamer  was  no  man,  but 
a  fair  maid.  The  girl  lay  flat  on  the  ground,  with  her 
chin  propped  in  the  cup  of  her  jointed  palms,  staring 
out  seaward  as  she  had  been  staring  when  the  wings 
of  the  sea-mist  swooped  over  her  and  inclosed  her, 

and  with  her  all  the  world.     She  did  not  shift  her 

2  c 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

attitude,  she  did  not  quit  her  couch  for  its  coming; 
she  was  a  true  child  of  the  open  air,  and  took  sun, 
wind,  mist,  snow,  each  as  it  came  and  made  the  best 
of  each.  She  had  liked  lying  on  the  grass  in  the 
sun  and  seeing  all  that  was  to  be  seen  so  clearly;  the 
smooth  sea  whose  waves  lapped  over  the  spires  and 
citadels  of  the  buried  city,  the  city  whose  bells  you 
could  hear  of  a  still  morning  or  evening  ringing  their 
matins  and  vespers  to  the  sea-changed  citizens. 
She  liked  now  the  lying  on  the  turf  in  the  mist  and 
seeing  nothing  at  all,  or  seeing,  it  may  be,  all  the 
marvels  and  the  mysteries  that  by  the  paradox  of 
existence  are  more  vivid  in  obscurity.  In  the  dark- 
ness of  mist  as  in  the  darkness  of  sleep  the  liberated 
mind  may  enter  the  kingdom  of  dreams,  may  meet 
on  even  terms  with  kings  and  queens  and  heroes, 
may  sit  at  ease  in  the  palace  of  the  prince  and  the 
garret  of  the  poet  and  the  shelter  of  the  star-gazer, 
may  love  and  desire  and  achieve  with  a  fierceness, 
a  tenderness  and  a  zest  denied  to  the  waker,  to  the 
walker  in  the  light  of  day. 

The  girl  was  young,  newly  one  and  twenty, 
newly  mistress  of  her  heritage  of  woe;  the  girl  was 
beautiful,  with  a  beauty  of  black  hair  and  purple- 
colored  eyes,  and  soft,  warm  skin  and  clean,  strong 
limbs  and  finely  molded  flesh.  Health  and  strength 
flew  their  red  flags  in  her  smooth  cheeks;  love  of  the 
land  and  the  sea  and  the  day  and  the  night  shone  in 
her  eyes;  she  was  such  a  one  as  you  might  expect 
to  see  stepping,  short-kirtled,  down  some  mountain- 
6 


THE    MAID    IN    THE    MIST 

glade  in  Thessaly,  with  a  boar-spear  in  her  hand, 
and  seeing,  wonder  if  you  beheld  mere  girl  or  sheer 
goddess.  For  this  girl  had  a  curious  quality  of 
composition.  Robust  as  she  was  and  nobly  made, 
there  was  an  elusiveness  about  her  vigor  which 
hinted  at  divinity.  If  you  could  bring  yourself  to 
believe  in  the  persistence  of  some  of  those  exquisite 
half-gods  of  the  ancient  world,  beings  whose  mortal- 
ity was  leavened  with  some  privilege  of  Olympian 
power,  you  might  be  willing  to  admit  that  here  was 
indeed  a  Dryad  or  an  Oread  that  had  abandoned 
the  hills  of  Hellas  for  the  hills  of  Ireland. 

The  girl  thought  none  of  these  thoughts  about 
herself;  she  would  have  laughed  to  hear  such 
thought  thrust  into  the  formality  of  words  and  laid 
at  her  feet.  She  took  herself  as  she  found  herself, 
with  her  youth,  and  her  fairness  and  courage,  and 
for  all  her  poverty  she  loved  the  life  she  lived  and 
the  wretched  folk  that  loved  her,  and  the  songs 
that  the  winds  of  Ireland  sing.  She  was  as  sturdy 
as  a  savage  and  as  healthy  as  a  savage,  and  in  a 
way  she  was  as  simple  as  a  savage,  for  she  followed 
an  ancient  faith  frankly,  and  yet  she  held  out  both 
hands  to  the  fairies.  But  there  was  a  strong  heart 
in  that  gracious  body  and  a  shrewd  brain  behind 
those  glorious  eyes. 


II 

VOICES 

VOICES  came  up  out  of  the  vapor,  voices  clear, 
brisk  and  cheerful  for  the  most  part,  but  with 
the  major  briskness  maimed  here  and  there  with 
petulance  and  querulousness  that  whined  and 
sighed  its  way  through  the  twisting  sweeps  of  sea- 
fog.  So  might  the  voices  of  ancient  prophets  have 
sounded  rumbling  through  the  clouds  to  their  wor- 
shipers. But  these  were  no  prophetic  voices;  they 
were  the  voices  of  men  and  women  groping  their 
way  toward  the  place  where  the  ruins  of  ancient 
ecclesiastical  glories  still  faced  wind  and  weather, 
toward  the  place  where  the  great  white  obelisk  of 
the  Round  Tower  stood  self-assertive,  stalwart  in 
its  challenge  to  time,  to  the  place  on  the  sweet- 
scented,  breezy  headland  overlooking  the  misted 
waters  and  the  city  buried  beneath  them,  where  the 
girl  lay.  All  of  the  voices,  clear,  brisk,  and  cheer- 
ful, petulant  and  querulous,  were  familiar  to  the 
girl's  keen  ears,  and  she  frowned  a  little  as  she  heard 
them,  tightening  her  lips.  She  liked  the  speakers 
well  enough,  and  she  knew  that  they  loved  her  dear- 
ly, but  she  did  not  want  them  or  any  one  just  then. 
8 


VOICES 

Very  certainly  she  did  not  want  the  company  of 
Larry  Flanagan,  of  Patsy  Doolan,  of  old  Molly 
Maloney,  that  was  credited  by  popular  superstition 
with  the  weight  of  a  century  of  years,  or  of  impudent 
little  Biddy  Sheehan,  that  for  sheer  devilment  of 
word  and  deed  could  beat  any  child  in  the  baronies 
that  might  be  two  years  her  senior.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  doubt  in  the  girl's  mind  as  to  who  the 
invaders  of  her  wrack-swathed  solitude  might  be. 
She  had  the  savage's  simplicity  of  natural  gifts, 
the  simple  certainty  that  never  forgot  a  face,  never 
forgot  a  voice.  With  a  little  shiver  of  impatience 
at  the  disturbance  of  her  solitude,  the  girl  sundered 
herself  unwillingly  from  the  soft,  moist  grass  and 
rose  to  her  feet.  Already  the  rule  of  the  opaque 
sea-fog  was  beginning  to  fail.  A  little  wind  stirred, 
dividing  its  folds,  sending  them  adrift  in  curving 
wisps  and  trailing  laniments.  As  she  peered  through 
the  lifting  curtains  of  dimness  she  could  faintly  dis- 
cern a  number  of  forms  slowly  ascending  the  slope, 
and  her  eyes  confirmed  the  witness  of  her  ears  as 
to  the  identity  of  the  intruders. 

She  felt  an  almost  animal  resentment  at  their 
coming.  She  had  been  so  happy  in  her  loneliness, 
in  her  queer  day-dreams.  She  had  forgotten  the 
folk  with  the  familiar  voices;  she  had  forgotten 
everything  that  was  real  and  practical  and  pathetic; 
she  had  become  for  the  hour  unhuman,  untroubled 
by  mortality,  poverty,  care;  unfretted  by  her  daily 
sorrow  for  others,  even  for  such  others  as  those 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

that  now  by  their  coming  had  banished  her  vi- 
sions. 

She  had  been  for  the  hour  a  fairy,  or  as  good  as 
a  fairy,  in  that  mist  which  is  the  kingdom  of  such 
spirits.  She  had  been  Meave  the  magnificent  mar- 
shaling her  army  against  Cuchulin,  the  hero  of 
heroes;  she  had  been  the  wonder  woman  that  had 
lured  Oisin  to  Tirn'an  Oge;  she  had  been  her 
namesake  laying  her  spell  upon  the  great-hearted 
envoy  of  Finn,  the  son  of  Coul,  and  now  she  must 
shake  herself  free  from  her  reverie  because  of  the 
sound  of  voices  that  roused  her  from  her  waking 
sleep,  that  reminded  her  of  life  and  the  cruel  things 
that  were  incidental  or  essential  to  life — hunger  and 
cold,  and  servitude. 

She  had  been  dwelling  in  the  kingdom  of  dreams, 
seeing  enchanted  sights,  thinking  ecstatic  thoughts, 
and  still  she  wished  to  linger  there;  but  she  might  do 
so  no  longer,  for  the  voices  of  the  world  were  upon 
her,  and  the  sound  of  them  dissipated  her  visions, 
and  brought  her  back  to  the  world  she  knew  so  well, 
the  world  that  was  watered  with  tears  and  fanned 
with  lamentations.  Even  while  she  regretted  she 
chided  herself  for  regretting,  for  the  love  of  her 
heart  was  given  to  the  unhappy  children  of  her 
race;  but  even  while  she  chided  she  continued  to 
regret,  for  the  dream  had  been  sweet,  and  sweet 
dreams  are  swift  to  fly.  Even  as  she  stood  erect  the 
capricious  morning  began  to  change,  asserting  it- 
self in  sudden  sunlight,  scattering  its  mists  and 
10 


VOICES 

rending  their  remnants  into  long,  pale  pennons, 
dissipating  them  over  the  sea.  She  knew  that  in 
a  few  seconds  the  world  would  be  flooded  with 
clear  air;  she  knew  that  in  a  few  seconds  she  would 
be  robbed  of  her  secrecy  and  delivered  visible  to 
those  that  were  mounting  the  hill-road.  She  knew 
them  well,  knew  them  with  affection,  but  she  did 
not  want  speech  with  them  just  then.  She  turned 
and  ran  swiftly  with  the  ease  of  one  to  whom  running 
is  as  native  as  walking  toward  the  Round  Tower. 
The  Tower,  like  all  of  its  kind,  had,  in  accordance 
with  the  defensive  purposes  for  which  it  was  erected, 
its  only  entrance  at  a  distance  from  the  ground.  In 
this  instance  the  doorway  was  only  some  six  feet 
from  the  soil,  and  in  old  days  the  opening  had  been 
reached  by  a  ladder  which  was  lowered  down  when 
needed  by  some  applicant  for  admission,  and  with- 
drawn again  thereafter.  In  later  days,  however, 
when  the  Round  Tower  ceased  to  be  of  any  use  as  a 
stronghold,  and  became  instead  an  object  of  interest 
to  the  curious,  some  one  had  been  at  the  pains  to 
construct  a  rude  flight  of  brickwork  steps  to  the 
entrance,  and  up  this  stairway  the  occasional  anti- 
quary and  casual  traveler  ascended  at  rare  intervals 
to  peer  knowingly  up  the  long  shaft  of  the  Tower, 
denuded  long  since  of  all  the  woodwork  that  divided 
it  into  floors,  and  murmur  something  foolish  about 
the  ancient  world. 

Up  these  steps  the  girl  now  sprang  nimbly  and 
plunged  into  the  dark,  cool  recess  of  the  antique 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

fortress.  It  was  a  familiar  spot  to  her.  It  had  been, 
as  it  were,  the  nursery  and  playground  of  her  child- 
hood. Here  in  the  company  of  her  nurse  she  had 
passed  dazzling  hours  as  the  pair  crouched  together, 
sheltered  from  the  insistent  rain,  while  the  oldster 
told  the  youngster  wonderful  tales  of  Finn  and  the 
Feni,  of  the  Gilla  Dacker,  and  the  little  weaver  that 
killed  threescore  and  ten  at  a  blow,  and  of  Gilla  na 
Chreck,  and  the  great  doings  of  Lawn  Dyarrig. 
For  her  that  dark,  damp,  elongated  vault  was  more 
fragrant  than  a  rose-garden,  more  radiant  than  a 
terrace  overlooking  the  sea,  for  it  had  been  for  her, 
and,  indeed,  still  was,  the  cage  that  contained  mar- 
vels. There  were  none  now  to  share  her  taste,  for 
the  peasantry  believed  the  Tower  to  be  haunted  and 
made  testimony  of  their  faith  in  a  rigid  abstention. 
Wherefore  the  girl  had  the  place  to  herself  whenever 
she  wanted  it,  on  wet  days  and  windy  days  and  infre- 
quent days  of  snow  when,  even  to  her  hardened  out- 
of-doors  body  it  seemed  pleasant  for  a  while  to  sit 
snug  and  warm  and  pass  the  time  of  day  with  ghosts 
and  goblins,  spooks  and  fairies.  The  girl  glided 
into  the  familiar  dusk  and  squatted  on  the  ground 
with  her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees,  waiting  on 
the  time  when  she  would  be  free  to  go  forth  again. 
The  small  company  of  peasants  whose  voices  had 
disturbed  Grania's  solitude  and  driven  her  to  take 
refuge  in  her  Round  Tower  were  slowly  making  their 
way  up  the  hill-road.  The  party  was  composed  of 
two  elderly  men,  Larry  Flanagan  and  Patsy  Doolan, 
12 


VOICES 

one  quite  old  and  witch-like  woman,  Molly  Maloney, 
and  Biddy  Sheehan,  a  little  bare-legged  girl  about 
twelve  years  old.  They  were  all  miserably  dressed 
and  all  appeared  to  be  the  victims  of  extreme  want. 
They  were  indeed  as  poor  as  they  seemed  to  be,  and 
their  way  of  life  was  extremely  squalid  and  wretched, 
but  their  native  vivacity  asserted  itself  in  the  eager- 
ness of  their  speech  and  gestures. 

As  they  reached  the  summit  Larry  Flanagan 
stretched  out  his  arms  as  if  to  greet  the  reassuring 
sunlight.  He  was  a  small  man  with  red  hair  that 
flamed  out  from  a  round  red  face  that  shone  like  an 
apple.  "The  saints  be  praised!"  he  ejaculated, 
"  for  the  blessed  sunlight.  I  thought  the  mist  would 
never  lift,  and  then  the  Parliament-man  wouldn't 
come." 

The  old  woman,  Molly,  turned  to  him  eagerly  her 
ancient,  wrinkled  face,  puckered  with  new  lines  of 
excitement.  "Are  you  certain  sure  'twas  for  this 
morning  ?"  she  questioned. 

Patsy  Doolan,  who  was  as  tall  as  Larry  was  short 
and  as  pale  as  Larry  was  red,  answered  for  him. 

"Sure  it  is,"  he  cried.  "Wasn't  Foxy  Conaher 
in  the  room  making  the  punch,  and  didn't  he  hear 
every  word  the  gentleman  said  ?  It  was  this  very 
morning  that  he  was  coming  to  look  at  the  old 
Tower,  bless  it!" 

At  this  moment  the  little  bare-legged  girl  gave  a 
little   whoop  of  triumph.     "Hooroo!"    she   cried. 
"I  see  him  on  the  hill-road!" 
13 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Larry  gave  her  an  approving  pat  on  the  shoulder. 
"  Bless  your  quick  eyes!"  he  said,  and  turned  to  look 
down  the  hillside  in  the  direction  of  the  girl's  ex- 
tended ringer. 

What  he  expected  to  see  was  the  sturdy,  well-set- 
up form  of  the  English  stranger  walking  all  alone 
on  the  road.  That  was  what  Foxy  Conaher's  words 
had  led  him  to  expect.  It  was  in  that  expectation 
that  the  little  company  had  rallied  on  the  hilltop. 
Well,  the  English  stranger  was  there  sure  enough, 
but  the  English  stranger  was  not  walking  alone. 
He  was  accompanied  by  another,  who  moved  with 
an  easy  grace  of  carriage  that  was  markedly  differ- 
ent from  the  bluff  and  somewhat  uncompromis- 
ing demeanor  of  the  stranger.  Larry  knew  well 
enough  who  the  other  man  was,  and  the  knowl- 
edge was  not  agreeable  to  him.  Instantly  the 
hopeful  enthusiasm  faded  from  his  face,  and  he 
turned  back  to  his  companion  with  his  hands 
lifted  in  tribulation.  "Oh,  murder,  we're  done 
for!"  he  wailed,  as  tragically  as  if  he  lamented 
the  fall  of  empires.  "His  Lordship  is  with 
him." 

At  the  sound  of  that  simple  sentence  all  his  hear- 
ers groaned  dismally,  rocking  themselves  slowly 
backward  and  forward  with  every  appearance  of 
the  deepest  woe. 

The  old  woman  was  the  first  to  find  speech  for 
her  grief.  "'Tis  he  that  has  the  hard  hand  and 
the  hard  heart  for  the  poor  people,"  she  said,  bit- 
14 


VOICES 

terly.  "There'll  be  no  chance  to  beg  off  the  Parlia- 
ment-man with  my  lord  by  his  side." 

The  man  Patsy  nodded  his  long  head  in  agree- 
ment. "True  for  you,  Molly/'  he  sighed. 

Larry  moaned  inarticulately,  finding  his  sorrow 
too  profound  for  words. 

The  little  girl  seemed  to  be  first  to  recover  from 
the  general  depression.  "Don't  talk  so  much," 
she  said,  sharply,  her  pretty  little  face  all  puck- 
ered with  a  grin  of  impish  intelligence.  "Maybe 
his  Lordship  is  only  showing  him  the  way.  What 
is  the  matter  with  us  that  we  couldn't  hide  be- 
hind the  ruins  a  minute  and  see  what  happens  ?  " 

Here  was  a  case  of  wisdom  issuing  from  the 
lips  of  babes.  Although  the  advice  came  from  the 
youngest  of  the  company,  it  found  favor  with 
the  others,  and  was  acted  upon  at  once.  The 
little  company  of  beggars  moved  slowly  into  the 
ruins  of  the  ancient  church,  where  they  easily  con- 
cealed themselves  very  effectively  from  the  pair 
that  were  now  ascending  the  hill,  the  pair  one  of 
whom  had  been  so  anxiously  expected,  the  other  of 
whom  was  so  religiously  shunned. 


Ill 

MY   LORD    CLOYNE 

WHILE  the  mendicants  are  skulking  in  the 
cover  of  the  ruins,  while  the  girl  is  hiding  in 
the  Round  Tower,  while  the  two  gentlemen  are 
leisurely  ascending  the  hill,  there  will  be  time  for 
the  presentation  of  a  few  pages  of  family  history 
essential  to  the  tale. 

Marcus  Loveless  was  the  fifth  Earl  of  Cloyne, 
in  the  kingdom  of  Kerry,  which  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  Cloyne  in  the  County  of  Cork. 
The  creation  dated  from  the  year  1688,  the  year 
of  the  great  and  glorious  Revolution,  when  Sir 
Lupus  Loveless,  that  had  been  equery  to  his 
Gracious  Majesty  King  James  the  Second,  seeing 
treachery  eaten  and  drunk  and  inhaled  on  all  sides 
of  him,  felt,  with  the  sagacity  of  the  rat,  that  it 
would  be  well  for  him  also  to  turn  renegade.  The 
thought  once  entertained  was  promptly  minted  into 
action,  and  in  reality  none  too  soon,  for  the  Prince 
of  Orange  was  dealing  out  honors  and  rewards  with 
so  free  a  hand — the  free  hand  of  those  that  thrust 
their  fingers  in  another's  exchequer — that  if  he  had 
come  a  little  later  Lupus  Loveless  might  have  found 
16 


MY    LORD    CLOYNE 

nothing  left  worth  the  sale  of  what  he,  having  no 
saving  sense  of  humor,  called  his  allegiance.  As, 
however,  his  belated  infamy  dated  from  the  brief 
Stuart  rule  in  Dublin,  Sir  Lupus  was  able  to  give 
to  the  Prince  of  Orange  some  particulars  of  informa- 
tion which  aided  materially  the  victory  of  the  Dutch 
in  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne,  and  earned  the  giver 
a  richer  reward  than  his  mere  personal  adhesion 
could  have  hoped  to  command.  He  was  promptly 
endowed  with  the  estate  of  Sir  Nicholas  O'Hara, 
and  also  with  the  title  of  Lord  Cloyne,  which  had 
just  been  conferred  upon  O'Hara  by  King  James 
by  Letters  Royal  Patent. 

Thus  there  was  a  Lord  Cloyne  at  St.-Germain  in 
France  in  attendance  upon  exiled  majesty  and  sup- 
porting with  difficulty  his  empty  dignity,  and  there 
was  a  Lord  Cloyne  occasionally  in  Kerry  but  more 
frequently  in  London  that  always  proclaimed  the 
orange  to  be  the  most  exquisite  of  the  fruits  of  the 
earth.  The  Lord  Cloyne  of  Kerry  and  of  London 
throve  in  the  royal  favor  and  laid  by  a  pretty  penny 
for  the  benefit  of  his  heirs.  These  heirs  proved 
extravagant,  and  extravagance  was  the  characteristic 
of  the  succeeding  generations,  which  was  the  reason 
why  Marcus  Loveless,  the  present  Lord  Cloyne,  was 
more  in  Kerry  than  in  London,  and  bemoaned  the 
fact  and  his  hard  fate.  His  lucky  brother  Curtius 
had  been  left  a  small  fortune  by  a  distant  aunt  that 
had  seen  him  in  his  youth  and  thought  him  a  pretty 
boy,  as  indeed  he  was.  This  blessed  bequest  was 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

large  enough  to  allow  that  engaging  young  gentle- 
man to  live,  if  not  quite  at  his  ease,  at  least  at  some- 
thing very  closely  resembling  ease,  in  London,  and  to 
taste  daily  those  pleasures  of  environment  and  asso- 
ciation which  were  denied  to  his  elder  brother  for 
what  seemed  to  him  an  intolerable  and  well-nigh 
interminable  portion  of  the  year. 

The  generation  which  witnessed  the  steady 
diminution  of  the  fortunes  of  the  Cloynes  witnessed 
also  a  proportionate  diminution  in  the  fortunes,  if 
the  terms  can  be  so  used,  of  the  O'Haras.  Nicholas 
O'Hara,  that  went  to  France  with  his  king,  had  a 
brother,  Connor,  that,  by  a  timely  subservience  to 
the  usurper,  gained  this  much  grace  that  he  was 
allowed  to  retain  the  use  and  comfort  of  an  old 
house  and  some  farm-lands  on  the  estate  that  has 
now  passed  into  alien  hands.  His  brother  never 
forgave  him  for  it,  but  the  times  were  desperately 
hard,  and  Connor  O'Hara  had  a  family  and  no 
inclination  for  exile.  Little  good,  however,  came 
to  the  O'Haras  from  the  act.  If  their  holding  of  a 
few  pitiful  acres  was  tolerated  by  disdainful  powers, 
that  toleration  would  not  give  O'Hara  after  O'Hara 
the  gift  of  keeping  a  tight  grip  on  the  meager  prop- 
erty. Little  by  little  it  drifted  in  exchange  for  broad 
pieces  into  the  possession  of  the  successive  lords  of 
Cloyne,  until  toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century  the  two  brothers  who  represented  the  house 
— the  French  O'Hara  blood  persisted  only  on  the 
distaff  side — had  a  very  pitiful  patrimony  to  share. 
18 


MY    LORD    CLOYNE 

It  was  a  curious  fact  that  through  all  those  hun- 
dred years  between  the  fall  of  King  James  and  the 
rise  of  the  United  Irishmen,  the  two  families  that  be- 
longed to  Cloyne,  the  Lovelesses  and  the  O'Haras, 
had  kindred  tastes;  good  hunters  both,  gamblers 
both;  wild  open-air  men,  good  eaters  and  drink- 
ers. So  long  as  the  pretense  was  possible,  so 
the  Lovelesses  that  were  lords  of  Cloyne  and  the 
O'Haras  that  fasted  upon  a  petty  farm  made  good 
terms  together  and  played  at  equality,  the  Love- 
lesses amiably  ignoring  the  penal  laws.  Then  came 
the  upheaval,  the  desperate  effort  to  destroy  the 
unendurable,  and  that  desperate  effort  swept  the 
two  boys  of  the  O'Haras  with  it  as  running  water 
sweeps  a  cork.  Ninety-eight  called  to  the  O'Haras 
as  it  called  to  thousands  of  their  countrymen,  and 
they  answered  frankly  and  valiantly  to  the  call,  as 
the  thousands  of  their  fellow-countrymen  did,  and 
they  paid  the  penalty  for  their  patriotism  as  the 
other  thousands  did,  the  penalty  of  death  or  the 
penalty  of  exile.  Now  the  O'Haras  were  repre- 
sented by  a  girl  named  Grania,  who  lived,  thanks 
to  the  tolerance  of  Cloyne  Hall,  rent-free  in  a  little 
cottage  with  an  old  woman  that  had  been  her  nurse 
before  the  bitter  days  of  Ninety-eight  and  that  had 
clung  to  her  when  the  child  was  left  alone  in  the 
world. 

More  of  this  child  hereafter.     Consider  again, 
my  Lord  Cloyne,  leisurely  ascending  that  Kerry 
hillside  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Rubie,  M.P.,  who 
19 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

was  plying  him  with  questions  about  Ireland,  which 
my  lord  answered  with  very  little  show  of  interest. 
My  Lord  Cloyne  hated  Ireland  cordially,  not, indeed, 
from  any  political  feeling  toward  the  native  popula- 
tion, whom  he  neither  liked  nor  disliked  nor  con- 
cerned himself  about  in  any  way.  He  disliked 
the  country  because  his  limited  means  compelled 
him  to  live  for  a  large  part  of  the  year  upon  his 
estate,  which  was,  of  course,  encumbered,  and  he 
envied  the  better  fortunes  of  his  two  brothers  whom 
fate  permitted  to  dwell  in  the  only  place  which  my 
lord  considered  the  proper  spot  for  a  gentleman — 
namely,  London.  He  did  his  best,  however,  during 
his  months  of  exile  from  the  Mecca  of  his  pleasures 
to  recall  to  himself  the  conditions  of  his  beloved 
capital  by  habiting  himself  after  a  fashion  very  un- 
like that  of  the  majority  of  his  neighbors.  He  rode 
and  drove  and  walkedji  abroad  dressed  in  the  latest 
mode  of  London,  the  latest  mode  that  his  London 
tailor  was  able  to  despatch.  Fashions  changed  so 
swiftly  in  those  brave  days  of  high  dandyism  that  it 
was  impossible  for  any  gentleman  who  was  not  at  the 
same  time  a  magician  to  appear  in  the  wilds  of 
Kerry  in  precisely  the  fashion  of  the  moment  of  the 
demigods  of  St.  James'  Street.  But  my  lord  re- 
garded himself  with  great  approval  in  the  exquitise 
arrangement  of  color  and  adjustment  of  stuff  and 
symmetry  of  proportions  that  constituted  the  armor 
of  the  impeccable  dandy.  His  taste  was  good,  and 
he  knew  it,  and  groaned  to  think  that  its  influence 
20 


MY    LORD    CLOYNE 

could  not  be  eternally  impressed  upon  the  capital, 
and  he  astonished  his  ragged,  hungry  tenantry  by 
the  cunning  harmonies  and  veiled  graces  of  his  attire. 

He  was  never  of  the  school  that  affects  a  loud 
coloring,  a  strident  assertion,  a  touch  of  proclamation 
to  admire.  Delicate  demi-tints  were  his  delight, 
a  suavity  of  muted  tones.  His  eye  admired  and 
his  body  carried  subtle  relationships  of  cool  color 
so  happily  interrelated  that  the  sense  of  any 
individual  predominance  of  hue  was  lost  in  the 
cunning  variegation  of  the  blend.  My  lord  was 
admittedly  the  best-dressed  man  in  Dublin,  where 
he  might  if  he  pleased  have  reigned  king  of  fops. 
But  Dublin  was  not  to  my  lord's  taste;  it  was  ever 
London  or  nothing  with  him.  It  is  true  you  can 
play  as  hard,  drink  as  hard,  make  love  as  per- 
sistently in  Dublin  as  in  London,  and  if  you  were 
of  a  belligerent  temper  you  could  calculate  on  far 
more  opportunities  of  going  out  than  on  the  Eng- 
lish side  of  St.  George's  Channel.  But  though  my 
lord  liked  gaming  and  drinking  and  love-making 
as  well  as  any  man  of  his  time,  he  liked  them,  speak- 
ing broadly,  only  in  London.  Elsewhere  they 
lacked  for  him  the  atmosphere,  the  sting,  the 
stimulus.  To  his  mind  to  get  drunk  in  Dublin 
was  just  to  get  drunk;  to  get  drunk  in  London  was 
an  esctasy. 

My  lord  would  not  have  called  it  that — my  lord 
never  troubled  to  find  elaborate  explanations  of 
his  moods  or  tastes.  But  for  him  London  was  the 

3  21 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

nearest  approach  to  an  idea  of  heaven  that  my 
lord's  brain  could  formulate.  He  was  hoping  now, 
as  he  walked  the  hill-road,  that  the  tender  beauty 
of  his  blues  and  grays  and  silver  did  not  appear 
to  his  companion  to  carry  an  air  of  belated  splendor. 
His  companion,  had  he  thought  at  all  about  my 
lord's  dress,  at  all  seriously,  which  indeed  he  did  not, 
being  a  serious  man  with  practical  purposes  guiding 
all  his  thoughts,  would  have  pronounced  him  very 
gentlemanly  attired,  and  there  an  end.  For  his 
own  part,  Mr.  Rubie,  M.P.,  affected  the  austerity 
of  garb  which  to  his  mind  became  a  strenuous  poli- 
tician, faithful  to  a  great  tradition  and  anxious  to 
carry  it  on.  His  own  attire  in  the  dark-blue  of  his 
coat  and  decided  yellow  of  his  waistcoat  recalled, 
as  it  was  intended  to  recall,  the  days  when  Charles 
James  Fox  and  certain  Whig  bloods,  his  com- 
panions, delighted  to  flaunt  their  sympathy  with 
revolution  in  the  eyes  of  scandalized  and  staggering 
ascendancy  by  clothing  themselves  in  the  blue  and 
buff  of  Mr.  Washington's  Continental  Army.  A 
generation  had  passed  since  the  American  Republic 
had  started  on  its  strenuous  career;  General  Wash- 
ington had  lain  in  Mount  Vernon  earth  these  fifteen 
years,  and  Mr.  Fox  had  lain  in  Westminster  these 
nine  years;  and  yet  the  passions  and  the  partisan- 
ships of  the  long  past  days  seemed  to  be  renewed. 
Once  again  the  Republic  and  the  Kingdom  had 
closed  in  combat,  and  once  again  there  were  Eng- 
lishmen who  thought  that  the  Republic  was  in  the 
22 


MY    LORD    CLOYNE 

right,  and  did  not  conceal  their  opinions.  Mr. 
Rubie  was  of  this  inclining,  and  though  his  attire 
was  quite  in  accordance  with  the  demands  of  con- 
temporary fashion,  though  there  was  nothing  in  the 
blue  on  his  back  or  the  yellow  on  his  stomach  to 
affront  the  critical  and  fastidious,  it  served  at 
the  same  time  to  assert  a  conviction,  to  recall  a 
tradition.  It  pleased  Mr.  Rubie  to  think  that  while 
he  went  about  decorous  he  discreetly  enrolled  the 
mode  in  the  service  of  his  political  principles.  Be- 
yond this,  all  that  Mr.  Rubie  asked  of  garments  was 
that  they  should  cover  him  from  the  weather,  make 
him  simply  presentable,  and  should  not  cost  too 
much. 


IV 

THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

MY  lord  came  to  a  halt  with  his  companion  and 
pointed  with  his  cane  to  the  Round  Tower. 
"There,"  he  said,  "inquisitive  visitor,  there  is  the 
Round  Tower  you  fuss  about/' 

Mr.  Rubie  regarded  the  Tower  with  great  atten- 
tion and  an  air  of  profound  wisdom.  The  Round 
Tower  was  a  fact  to  him,  a  fact  to  be  estimated  and 
tabulated  in  his  compilation  of  Irish  statistics.  It 
was  no  more  than  that.  "How  interesting!  how 
excessively  interesting!"  he  protested,  in  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  challenge  any  question  of  his  asser- 
tion. "Opinions  differ  as  to  its  origin,  I  under- 
stand. Pray  tell  me  your  theory." 

He  turned  a  very  grave  face  on  his  host  as  he 
questioned,  but  in  contrast  to  the  gravity  of  Mr. 
Rubie  my  lord  seemed  inclined  to  he  hilarious.  He 
laughed  and  took  snuff  and  buried  his  snuff-box 
again  in  a  pocket  of  his  dove-colored  waistcoat  and 
laughed  again  as  he  swung  his  cane.  "My  dear 
fellow,"  he  answered,  gaily,  "  I  have  no  theory  about 
the  damned  thing.  I  have  neither  the  leisure  nor 
the  inclination  for  the  study  of  antiquities.  Some 
24 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

of  the  learned  explain  it  whimsically  enough. 
Phallic  worship,  you  know."  My  lord  made  a 
fencing  pass  with  his  rattan  at  his  companion  as 
he  spoke,  which  Mr.  Rubie  avoided  with  an  air  of 
dignity. 

Mr.  Rubie  seemed  pained  at  his  air  of  levity. 
"My  interest  is  serious,"  he  answered  solemnly. 

Cloyne  agreed  with  him,  still  laughing.  "So  is 
mine,"  he  insisted.  "It  may  perhaps  surprise  you 
to  hear  that  the  thing  has  a  great  interest  for  me  just 
now." 

Rubie  seemed  pleased  at  this  apparent  change  of 
front  on  my  lord's  part.  "Why,  pray  ?"  he  asked. 

"It  never  occurred  to  me,"  Cloyne  explained, 
"that  the  Tower  had  any  value,  but  it  seems  that  it 
has,  and  I  have  actually  got  a  purchaser  for  the  silly 
thing." 

"Surely,"  cried  Rubie,  "you  would  not  be  willing 
to  part  with  so  curious  a  relic  of  the  past." 

"I  would,  indeed,"  Lord  Cloyne  answered,  "and 
to  do  so  this  very  day  to  Sir  William  Doubble,  no 
less." 

"Doubble,  the  banker?"  Rubie  questioned,  with 
a  note  of  surprise  in  his  voice. 

"Doubble,  the  banker,"  Cloyne  echoed.  "When 
he  shuts  his  bank  he  becomes  an  antiquary  and  he 
has  a  house  at  Muswell  Hill,  with  acres  of  grounds 
which  are,  as  it  were,  the  circus  for  his  hobby- 
horse." 

"What is  his  hobby-horse  ?"  Rubie  asked,  politely. 
25 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

He  knew  very  little  about  Sir  William  except  the 
fact  that  he  was  rich  and  had  a  pretty  wife. 

Sir  William  took  no  part  in  politics,  and  therefore, 
from  Mr.  Rubie's  point  of  view,  he  could  scarcely  be 
considered  to  exist.  Still  as  the  subject  seemed  to 
interest  Lord  Cloyne,  Mr.  Rubie  was  considerately 
attentive. 

"The  old  put  collects  monuments,"  Cloyne  an- 
swered, with  a  strong  note  of  contempt  in  his  voice. 

Mr.  Rubie  was  really  surprised  at  the  statement. 
"Monuments!"  he  repeated,  with  astonishment. 

"Why,  yes,"  Cloyne  continued;  "he  has  not  only 
the  itch  to  collect,  but  the  ambition  to  make  a 
museum  of  religious  architecture,  and  he  studs  his 
park  with  all  the  buildings  he  can  beg,  borrow,  or 
steal  from  all  the  countries  of  the  world.  Grecian 
temples,  Roman  temples,  Hindu  temples,  Druidic 
temples,  Mohammedan  temples,  anything  of  the 
kind  delights  him,  and  he  pays  high  prices  for  the 
privilege  of  transplanting  them  from  the  places 
where  they  belong  to  the  incongruous  atmosphere  of 
Muswell  Hill.  I  am  told  the  appearance  of  the 
place  is  as  ridiculous  as  dismal." 

Mr.  Rubie  looked  and  was  horrified.  This 
whimsical  spirit  of  transplantation  offended  his  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things.  "What  a  vandal!"  he  pro- 
tested. 

Cloyne  went  on,  unheeding.  "This  is  the  way 
that  he  comes  into  my  concerns.  He  and  my  brother 
Curtius  were  talking  in  White's  the  other  day, 
26 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

and  Curtius,  somehow  or  other,  happened  to  speak 
of  the  Round  Tower.  Instantly  my  banking  mad- 
man was  agog.  He  scented  a  new  trophy,  and  now 
nothing  will  serve  him  but  that  he  must  have  my 
Round  Tower  to  set  up  in  that  bedlam  of  a  back 
garden  of  his,  for  himself  and  the  madmen  who 
envy  him  to  gloat  over,  and  for  his  sane  friends  to 
laugh  at." 

Rubie  disapproved  of  Sir  William's  action.  It 
seemed  to  him  both  tasteless  and  unfair  to  despoil 
Ireland  of  an  ancient  monument  in  this  fashion. 
But  for  a  moment  his  thoughts  wandered  from  the 
Round  Tower.  "I  have  met  Lady  Doubble," 
Rubie  said,  "an  amiable  lady" — Lord  Cloyne 
smiled  faintly  at  the  phrase — "but  I  know  less  of  Sir 
William.  Your  tale  does  not  tempt  me  to  like  him." 

Cloyne  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Damn  it, 
man,"  he  cried,  with  the  vehemence  of  desire  in  his 
voice,  the  fierceness  of  desire  in  his  voice,  "it  means 
a  thousand  pounds  in  my  pocket,  and  a  thousand 
pounds  means  a  devil  of  a  lot  to  me.  It  means  a 
London  season  for  my  lady — balls,  routs,  levees  and 
all  the  rest  that  the  poor  soul  longs  for.  It  means 
St.  James's  and  the  Mall,  Watier's,  and  Carlton 
House,  and  everything  that  makes  life  livable  for 
me." 

My  lord's  voice  trembled  a  little  with  very  genuine 

emotion  as  he  thus  enumerated  some  of  the  joys  that 

his  beloved  London  held  for  him.     He  thought  of 

London  as  a  lover  thinks  of  his  lass;  he  yearned  for 

27 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

London  as  the  soldier  of  fortune  yearns  for  conquest. 
He  was  standing  in  a  place  of  amazing  beauty,  and 
he  hated  it,  longed  to  exchange  it  for  a  smoky  city 
and  the  gambling-rooms  of  clubs.  Mr.  Rubie 
listened  to  his  avowal  with  a  mixture  of  pity  and 
contempt,  which  he  strove  not  to  exhibit.  It  was 
not  that  he  disliked  London.  London  meant  as 
much  to  him  in  one  way  as  it  meant  to  Lord  Cloyne 
in  another.  It  was  not  that  he  had  any  much 
keener  appreciation  of  the  loveliness  around  him 
than  my  lord  had.  He  would  not  have  bartered 
Westminster  for  the  Vale  of  Cashmere.  It  was 
Lord  Cloyne' s  reasons  for  liking  London  that 
earned  his  disapproval.  He  could  understand 
passionate  enthusiasm  for  the  extension  of  the  fran- 
chise, for  the  abolition  of  slavery,  for  the  promotion 
of  international  peace.  But  clubs,  cards,  debauch- 
ery, the  company  of  the  Prince  Regent's  set,  that  a 
man  should  sigh  for  these  things  disgusted  him. 
It  was,  therefore,  in  sign  of  comprehension  rather 
than  of  sympathy  that  Rubie  nodded.  "I  see,"  he 
said,  sourly. 

"Of  course,"  Cloyne  admitted,  "it  will  make  a 
bit  of  a  noise  in  the  neighborhood,  for  it  stands  on  a 
bit  of  land  that  belongs,  or  I  should  say  belonged, 
to  the  O'Haras." 

The  name  that  was  so  familiar  to  Lord  Cloyne 
conveyed  nothing  to  his  hearer. 

"Who  are  the  O'Haras  ?"  Rubie  questioned. 

"A  race  of  rebels  and  wreckers,"  Cloyne  ex- 
28 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

plained,  "that  used  to  live  like  little  princes  here 
till  Orange  Billy  put  us  in  their  place  a  hundred 
years  ago."  His  lordship  spoke  approximately. 
"Thanks  to  the  good  nature  of  my  worthy  predeces- 
sors, the  O'Haras  were  allowed  to  hold  a  bit  of  their 
old  domain  on  sufferance,  as  it  were,  and  the  thing 
has  gone  on,  a  case  of  toleration  on  our  part  and 
acceptance  on  theirs,  from  father  to  son." 

"I  see,"  Rubie  said,  with  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  is  prepared  to  accept  anything  in  the  country 
he  was  visiting. 

"But,  of  course,"  Cloyne  continued,  "they  can't 
hold  it  in  law." 

"Why  not  ?"  Rubie  asked,  indifferently  enough, 
for  he  was  feeling  no  great  interest  in  these  unknown 
O'Haras,  but  his  companion's  reply  sharply  took 
from  him  his  indifference. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Cloyne  explained,  "they  are 
Papists." 

Instantly  Rubie  was  indignant,  and  showed  his 
indignation  with  an  angry  cry  of  "Shameful!"  as 
he  recalled  the  rigors  and  tyrannies  of  the  penal 
laws.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  as  if  to  find  word 
in  which  to  express  his  emotion,  and  then  went  on, 
"When  shall  we  in  England  have  the  decency,  the 
justice  to  put  all  beliefs  on  an  equality  ?" 

Cloyne    shrugged    his    shoulders.     "Keep    your 
philanthropy  for  Westminster,"  he    said,   lightly. 
"If  you  were  an  Irish  landlord  you'd  whistle  a  dif- 
ferent tune,  I  promise  you." 
29 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Rubie  was  annoyed  at  the  complacency  with 
which  Cloyne  accepted  a  condition  of  affairs  which 
appeared  to  him  to  be  odious.  He  believed  very 
sincerely  in  his  principles,  and  was  absolutely  honest 
in  his  ardors  for  reform  and  his  zeal  for  religious 
and  political  liberty.  "I  have  never  been  able  to 
whistle  any  tune,"  he  answered,  stiffly,  "and  I 
hope  that  under  no  conceivable  conditions  would 
I  ever  forget  the  principles  inculcated  by  Mr.  Burke 
and  Mr.  Fox." 

Cloyne  laughed  derisively.  "Damn  Mr.  Burke 
and  Mr.  Fox  for  a  pair  of  Whig  hypocrites,"  he 
said.  Then,  noticing  the  frown  that  was  gather- 
ing on  Rubie' s  brow,  and  remembering  that  he  was 
the  host  of  this  gentleman  that  cherished  such  stren- 
uous opinions,  he  made  him  a  little  bow  and  con- 
tinued in  a  voice  that  courteously  suggested  apology 
without  being  markedly  apologetic.  "No  offense, 
sir;  every  man  to  his  opinions.  You  call  yourself 
a  Whig,  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  you  are  a  good 
one,  but  I  would  wager  a  guinea  you  would  grow 
out  of  it  if  you  lived  in  Ireland." 

Rubie  looked  displeased.  "  With  your  permission 
we  will  change  the  subject,"  he  said,  coldly.  Then, 
as  Cloyne's  face  expressed  smiling  agreement  with 
his  wish,  he  reflected  that  it  was  unreasonable  of 
him  to  expect  an  Irish  landlord  of  Lord  Cloyne's 
type  to  appreciate  those  laws  of  conduct  estab- 
lished by  the  immortal  utterances  of  Mr.  Burke  and 
Mr.  Fox.  He  looked  to  the  Round  Tower  to  fur- 
30 


THE    PARLIAMENT. MAN 

nish  a  new  theme  of  conversation.  "I  should  like 
to  make  a  sketch  of  that  Tower,"  he  declared.  As 
he  spoke  he  produced  from  a  breast-pocket  a  small 
sketch-book  and  a  pencil. 

Cloyne  looked  at  him  with  much  surprise.  "Good 
Lord!  sir,"  he  asked,  "do  you  trifle  with  the  arts 
as  well  as  with  politics  ?" 

Rubie,  fluttering  the  sheets  of  his  sketch-book, 
answered  with  modest  complacency.  "I  can  do 
enough  with  the  pencil  to  illustrate  my  notes  and 
remind  me  of  the  objects  of  curiosity  that  I  meet 
on  my  travels." 

My  Lord  Cloyne  had  no  hostility  to  the  arts.  His 
father  had  been  considered  a  connoisseur  in  his 
day,  a  member  of  the  Dilettanti  Society,  and  had 
enriched  the  Hall  with  various  pictures  and  an- 
tiquities, which,  to  his  son's  extreme  annoyance,  he 
had  by  a  clause  in  his  will  prevented  that  son  from 
selling.  How  often  had  my  lord  regarded  with  a 
malevolent  scowl  those  torsos  and  altars  and  bustos, 
those  Corregios  and  Pinturiccios  and  Murillos, 
which  represented  to  him  so  much  unavailable  gold 
mines.  Converted  into  cash,  what  pleasures  might 
they  not  have  provided;  into  what  exquisite  arrange- 
ments of  coats  and  waistcoats  and  pantaloons 
might  they  not  have  been  transmogrified!  My  lord 
had  certainly  a  sense  of  color;  my  lord  had  cer- 
tainly a  sense  of  form;  but  he  disdained  the  medium 
of  canvas  and  the  medium  of  marble;  he  aimed  at 
the  medium  of  raiment  artfully  adapted  by  a  master 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  the  plastic  body  of  man.  So,  by  virtue  of  his 
judgment  of  cut  and  his  subtlety  in  adjusting  the 
harmonious  relations  of  garment  to  garment, 
Lord  Cloyne  considered  himself  an  artist,  and  felt 
no  disdain  for  the  Parliament-man  with  his 
brandished  pencil. 

Cloyne  smiled  compassionately.  "Make  your 
sketch  by  ail  means,"  he  said,  "but  excuse  me  while 
you  make  it.  My  banker  antiquary  is  traveling 
from  Dublin  with  his  wife  and  my  brother  Curtius." 
He  drew  out  his  watch  as  he  spoke  and  consulted  it. 
"He  may  be  here  at  any  time  now,  and  I  must  be  at 
the  Hall  to  meet  him."  He  made  as  if  to  go,  but 
paused  watching  Rubie,  who  was  brandishing  his 
pencil  in  the  air  and  making  measurements  of  the 
Tower  preliminary  to  putting  point  to  paper. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  note  of 
amusement  in  his  voice,  "if  you  will  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  girl." 

Rubie,  who  had  got  his  measurements  settled  to 
his  satisfaction  and  had  already  been  putting  in  the 
first  strokes  of  his  sketch,  paused  in  his  work.  "What 
girl  ?"  he  asked. 

Cloyne  explained.  "The  last  of  the  O'Haras. 
Didn't  I  say  that  there  was  only  a  girl  left  of  them 
now?" 

Rubie  shook  his  head  and  suspended  the  business 
of  his  pencil.  "You  made  no  mention  of  any  girl," 
he  asserted. 

Lord  Cloyne  whistled.  "Then  I  should  have," 
32 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

he  said,  "for  she  is  very  well  worth  mentioning. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  Martin  O'Hara  that  was 
killed  in  the  Ninety-eight.  My  revered  parent, 
who  was,  if  I  may  say  so,  without  disrespect,  a  bit  of 
a  whim — witness  our  classical  names,  Marcus, 
Curtius,  good  Lord! — seems  to  have  had  a  great 
kindness  for  the  O'Haras,  so  he  let  this  orphan 
babe  and  the  old  nurse  that  took  charge  of  her  live 
on  here  rent-free  in  a  cottage  on  the  sole  conditions 
of  showing  the  ruins  to  casual  travelers.'* 

Mr.  Rubie's  pencil  paused  in  a  moment  of  what 
appeared  to  him  to  be  happy  reproduction.  "Very 
considerate,  I  am  sure,"  he  murmured. 

My  lord  laughed  softly.  "I  wonder,"  he  said, 
"if  he  had  any  idea  of  making  provision  for  his 
children.  The  girl  is  a  beauty,  but  I  advise  you  not 
to  make  love  to  her  if  you  do  see  her." 

Mr.  Rubie  resumed  his  sketching  with  a  great  air 
of  dignity.  "  It  is  not  my  habit  to  make  love  to 
strange  young  ladies,"  he  said  drily. 

Cloyne  laughed.  It  was  evident  he  was  amused 
by  some  memory,  but  it  was  also  evident,  or  would 
have  been  to  some  more  attentive  observer  than  Mr. 
Rubie,  that  was  so  busy  with  his  sketch,  that  a  mor- 
dant element  of  annoyance  was  blended  with  the 
ostentatious  show  of  amusement. 

"It  is  mine,"  he  asserted,  "and  when  I  found  one 

day  that  the  wild  child  I  had  noticed  indifferently 

in   the   neighborhood   of  the   Round   Tower  had 

grown  as  it  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  into  a  most  ador- 

33 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

able  woman,  I  naturally  showed  that  I  was  inclined 
to  be  kind  to  her." 

He  paused,  with  a  chuckle  that  tailed  off  into 
what  seemed  remarkably  like  a  snarl,  and  the  sudden 
change  of  tone  had  the  effect  of  distracting  Mr. 
Rubie  for  a  moment  from  his  painstaking  repro- 
duction of  the  venerable  monument. 

"How  so?"  Rubie  asked,  feeling  somewhat  curi- 
ous in  spite  of  himself  at  the  persistence  with  which 
my  Lord  Cloyne  seemed  to  dwell  upon  the  history  of 
this  daughter  of  a  fallen  house,  whose  mission  in  life 
appeared  to  be  to  take  charge  of  the  very  tower  that 
he  was  then  in  the  act  of  enshrining  in  his  sketch- 
book. The  answer  came  quite  frankly.  "  I  wanted 
to  make  her  my  mistress,"  Cloyne  said,  airily.  He 
had  no  sooner  uttered  the  words  than  the  appearance 
of  a  deep  flush  upon  the  ruddy  cheeks  of  Mr.  Rubie 
warned  him  that  he  was  tilting  anew  against  some  of 
the  prejudices  of  his  guest.  Inwardly  he  cursed  the 
puritanical  rascal.  Outwardly  he  condescended  to 
explain. 

"Oh,  with  all  the  honors,  begad,"  he  vowed. 
"I  offered  to  take  her  to  Dublin  for  a  month,  fine 
dresses,  theatres,  suppers,  and  all  the  compliments 
of  the  season,  with  an  honorable  assurance  that  I 
would  provide  some  presentable  gentleman  to  take 
her  off  my  hands  and  keep  her  in  comfort  at  the  end 
of  our  little  holiday.  I  ask  you,  could  I  say  or  do 
fairer  than  that  ?" 

The  expression  on  Mr.  Rubie's  face  would  have 
34 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

shown  to  any  one  less  heedless  than  My  Lord  Cloyne 
that  he  did  not  think  my  lord's  conduct  was  anything 
but  discreditable.  When  Mr.  Rubie  sighed  over 
the  vagaries  of  Mr.  Fox  he  was,  as  it  were,  restored 
and  solaced  by  reflecting  upon  the  virtue  of  Mr. 
Burke,  but  My  Lord  Cloyne  had  nothing  in  Mr. 
Rubie's  eyes  to  counterbalance  his  proclaimed 
licentiousness.  Wherefore,  Mr.  Rubie  frowned, 
and  My  Lord  Cloyne,  embarked  upon  his  narrative, 
took  no  notice  of  his  frown. 

"The  damned  little  baggage,"  he  continued, 
thoughtfully.  "She  might  have  been  a  queen,  the 
way  she  took  me."  Mr.  Rubie  felt  a  growing 
interest  in  this  unknown  girl.  "How  did  she  take 
you  ?"  Rubie  asked. 

"Devilish  uncivil,  I  can  tell  you,"  Cloyne  an- 
swered, with  an  acrid  smile  of  reminiscence.  "I 
made  my  proposal  as  a  man  of  honor  should,  and 
by  Jove!  I  was  quite  prepared  to  make  good  all 
that  I  promised,  if  it  cost  me  another  farm.  But 
bless  your  heart!  I  found  that  I  had  run  up  against 
a  very  amazon  of  virtue.  Egad!  I  was  staggered. 
Lord!  she  had  a  tongue.  It  was  not  that  she  got 
angry — a  fine  woman  in  a  fury  is  a  pretty  sight, 
you  know" — here  Mr.  Rubie,  by  an  indignant 
shake  of  the  head  and  a  protesting  wave  of  his 
pencil,  seemed  to  proclaim  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  kind — "  flaming  cheeks,  blazing  eyes,  tousled 
hair,  heaving  bosom,  and  the  rest  of  the  accessories. 
I  know  them  well  enough;  I  like  them  well  enough; 
35 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

but  this  girl  was  not  a  bit  of  that  kidney.  She  does 
not  rage,  but  she  has  such  a  cursed  unpleasant 
way  of  laughing  and  keeping  cool  while  she  laughs, 
and  staring  you  out  of  countenance  for  all  your  rank 
in  the  grand  army  of  gallantry,  and  jeering  and 
sneering,  that,  begad!  she  made  me  feel  uncom- 
monly like  a  fool.'* 

Mr.  Rubie  felt,  and,  indeed,  showed,  a  strong 
disapproval  of  my  lord's  narrative.  His  gorge  rose 
— as  he  would  have  expressed  it — at  the  libertine 
spirit  of  his  lordship's  speech,  of  his  lordship's  de- 
meanor toward  the  great  sexual  problems  of  life. 
But  even  while  he  condemned,  he  was  honest  enough 
to  wonder  vaguely  whether  or  no  a  certain  wicked 
spirit  of  envy  ladled  the  salt  into  his  condemna- 
tion in  tablespoonfuls.  The  uncomfortable  doubt 
charged  his  disapproval  with  spitefulness  when  he 
spoke. 

"As  bad  as  that?"  Rubie  asked,  with  a  faint 
touch  of  malice  in  his  voice. 

"Worse,"  Cloyne  admitted,  with  the  cheerfulness 
of  a  schoolboy.  "When  I  tried  to  redeem  the 
situation  by  action,  to  prove  my  passion  'more  by 
deed  than  word,'  as  Byron  says,  I  protest  the  en- 
counter showed  no  better  result  for  me.  Naturally, 
I  did  what  any  one  in  my  position  would  have  done. 
I  saw  that  the  preliminaries  of  courtship,  the  skirm- 
ishings, had  failed,  and  I  sought  to  redeem  the 
situation  by  a  general  attack." 

My  lord  paused,  apparently  overcome  by  the  rec- 
36 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

ollection  of  his  wrongs.  Mr.  Rubie,  inclined  to  be 
malicious  in  the  strength  of  his  integrity,  and  con- 
scious that  my  lord  confessed  defeat,  pressed  for 
particulars  of  the  disaster.  "What  did  the  young 
lady  do  then  ?"  he  inquired. 

My  lord  grinned  at  the  memory.  "Why,"  he 
said,  "the  vixen  picked  up  a  pitchfork  and  threat- 
ened to  stick  it  into  me  if  I  didn't  mend  my  manners. 
Begad!  she'd  have  done  it,  too,  I  believe,  and  I 
was  wearing  a  waistcoat  that  day  that  I  wouldn't 
have  had  scratched  for  the  world.  It  was  a  dream 
that  came  to  me  after  a  careless  study  in  a  case  of 
minerals  in  the  library.  The  cool  smoothness,  the 
calm  coloring  of  some  of  the  stones,  inspired  me. 
Nature,  believe  me,  is  our  best  guide  in  our  attire, 
and  I  evolved  a  waistcoat  with  subtly  blended  hints 
of  agate  and  jade  and  bloodstone  that  was  a  master- 
piece of  tact.  I  swear,  I  trembled  for  it  when  the 
child  brandished  her  trident." 

"Only  your  waistcoat?"  Rubie  questioned, 
slyly. 

My  lord  took  up  the  implied  challenge  briskly. 
"Oh,  I'd  have  risked  my  skin  for  a  kiss,"  he  in- 
sisted, "but,  damn  me,  not  Catford's  latest." 

Mr.  Rubie  was  no  authority  in  the  sartorial 
world,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  tailored  by  an 
honest  fellow  in  Bloomsbury,  but  even  he  could  not 
be  ignorant  of  the  genius  of  Catford,  the  tailor  of 
the  great,  and  he  nodded  a  reluctant  recognition  of 
his  fame. 

4  37 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Cloyne  continued.  "No  girl  in  the  world  is 
worth  such  a  masterpiece." 

Mr.  Rubie  shook  his  head.  "  I  cannot  believe," 
he  said,  "that  any  human  being  really  feels  like 
that  about  his  clothes." 

Cloyne  regarded  him  with  an  expression  of  pity. 
"You  never  had  any  imagination,  my  dear  fellow. 
But  who  are  you  to  preach,  anyhow.  Why  do  you 
wear  that  blue  coat  and  that  yellow  waistcoat,  for 
instance  ?"  my  lord  asked,  with  knowledge  of  the 
answer,  for  he  was  aware  of  the  fact  that  certain 
English  sympathizers  with  the  United  States  were 
pleased  to  do  as  Mr.  Rubie  was  doing,  were  pleased 
to  do  what  Mr.  Fox  had  done. 

"That  is  very  different,"  Rubie  answered,  pom- 
pously. "They  represent  a  political  tradition." 

Cloyne  laughed  mockingly.  "  Because  your  idol 
Fox  chose  to  sport  blue  and  buff  to  show  his  sym- 
pathy with  the  late  Mr.  Washington  and  his  rebels, 
you  choose  to  show  your  sympathy  with  the  present 
generation  of  Yankees  by  wearing  a  crude  and 
assertive  combination  of  hues.  My  dear  sir,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  so,  you  blaspheme,  you  con- 
fuse political  opinions,  which  are  of  no  impor- 
tance, with  questions  of  tint  and  shade  and  tone 
and  match,  which  are  of  overwhelming  impor- 
tance. In  a  word,  as  regards  the  mode,  you  are 
hopeless.  You  have  no  appreciation  of  the  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Pardon  me,"  Rubie  answered,  solemnly,  "  I  am 
38 


THE    PARLIAMENT-MAN 

impregnated  with  the  principles  of  Mr.  Burke's 
great  treatise  on  the  Sublime  and  the  Beauti- 
ful." 

Cloyne  held  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  comic 
despair.  "Good  Lord,  Burke  again!"  he  wailed. 
"  Between  Burke  and  Fox,  I  protest,  you  are  fit  for 
bedlam." 

"You  know  not  what  you  say,"  Rubie  said,  and 
resumed  his  sketch. 

"Well,  I  must  hasten  to  meet  my  coming 
guests,"  Cloyne  answered.  "But  once  again  let 
me  warn  you,  if  you  do  happen  to  come  across  Miss 
O'.Hara,  to  leave  love-making  on  one  side." 

Mr.  Rubie  made  a  gesture  of  impatient  protest, 
of  which  my  lord  took  no  notice.  "Not  only  is  she 
desperately  well  able  to  take  care  of  herself,"  he 
continued,  "but  I  hear  now  that  she  has  a  swain 
in  these  parts,  a  certain  Dennis  Tirowen — a  small 
farmer  of  the  kind  that  would  like  to  be  a  gentleman" 
— my  lord  said  this  with  a  certain  show  of  contempt. 
"He  is  big  and  strong  and  reported  to  be  quarrel- 
some." 

"He  shall  have  no  cause  to  pick  a  quarrel  with 
me,"  Mr.  Rubie  asserted,  sententiously,  busily  plying 
his  pencil. 

Cloyne  laughed  again.  "Well,"  he  said,  "you 
are  warned  against  maid  and  man,  and  so  I  leave 
you  to  destiny." 

Gaily  My  Lord  Cloyne  waved  his  hand,  gaily  My 
Lord  Cloyne  twirled  his  cane  as  he  started  on  his 
39 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

descent  of  the  hill,  leaving  Mr.  Rubie  with  pursed 
mouth  and  puckered  eyebrows,  busy  with  his  sketch, 
and  busy,  too,  though  very  much  against  his  will 
and  judgment,  with  the  thoughts  that  Lord  Cloyne's 
talk  had  called  into  being. 


BARREN,  BARREN,  BEGGARS  ALL 

MR.  RUBIE  felt  a  sense  of  relief  at  the  depar- 
ture of  Lord  Cloyne.  While  he  recognized 
the  politeness  of  his  host,  his  lordship's  lack  of 
seriousness  grated  upon  the  nature  of  the  man,  who 
took  life  very  seriously.  Mr.  Rubie  considered 
it  shocking  that  a  man  could  think  and  talk  of 
trivialities  while  there  existed  grave  problems  to 
engage  the  mind,  and  he  felt  himself  ill  at  ease  in 
the  company  of  a  person  who  wanted  to  talk  of 
coats  and  waistcoats  while  he  wanted  to  talk  of 
affairs  and  economics. 

All  the  same,  Mr.  Rubie  might  not  have  felt  so 
elated  at  the  absence  of  Lord  Cloyne  if  he  could 
have  guessed  at  the  consequences  which  that  same 
absence  was  to  entail.  While  he  plied  his  pencil 
briskly,  putting  in  the  strokes  with  a  firmness  that 
proved  him  a  fairly  competent  draftsman,  he  was 
peacefully  unaware  of  the  assault  that  was  now  to 
be  made  upon  his  principles  and  his  pocket.  Heads 
peeped  cautiously  from  the  shelter  of  various 
fragments  of  the  shattered  church;  when  these 
heads  were  satisfied  that  the  coast  was  clear  and 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

my  lord  out  of  sight  they,  with  their  pertaining 
bodies,  emerged  from  their  lair  and  descended  upon 
the  stranger.  Suddenly  Mr.  Rubie,  busily  working, 
found  himself  environed  by  importunity. 

The  beggars  clustered  around  him,  naked,  as  it 
were,  hyperbolically,  and  practically  unashamed. 
Gaunt,  haggard  faces  glowered  at  him;  gaunt,  hag- 
gard hands  entreated,  demanded;  hoarse  voices 
supplicated,  whining,  cajoling,  detestable.  The 
perturbed  senses  of  the  astonished  traveler,  thus 
rudely  taken  unawares,  multiplied  their  numbers, 
multiplied  their  voices;  he  seemed  at  first  to  be  the 
centre  of  a  very  mob,  and  it  was  not  for  some  few 
seconds  that  he  was  able  to  resolve  his  tormentors 
into  their  actual  numbers. 

They  gabbled  and  chuckled  about  him;  he  found 
them  like  the  misshapen  specters  of  an  uneasy 
dream,  and  he  was  vehemently  and  vainly  eager  to 
be  rid  of  them.  He  was  to  learn  that  their  impor- 
tunities were  not  to  be  easily  dissipated.  They  had 
not  ventured  to  assert  themselves  while  his  lordship 
was  present,  for  they  knew  and  feared  his  heavy 
hand.  But  the  strange  gentleman  was  another 
matter.  He  looked  amiable,  might,  surely  must, 
prove  amenable  to  solicitations;  the  attempt  was 
worth  the  making. 

Larry  postured  before  him  with  extended  hands 
and  features  twisted  into  a  grin  of  supplication. 
"Sure  it  is  the  kind  face  your  Honor  has,"  he  whined. 

Biddy,  the  little  bare-legged  girl,  pushed  her  way 
42 


"BARREN,    BARREN,    BEGGARS    ALL" 

impudently  in  front  of  him  and  stared  up  with  a 
roguish  smile.  "And  the  kind  face  means  the  kind 
hand,"  she  said,  emphatically. 

The  man  Patsy  pawed  the  air  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  soothe  the  stranger  with  amiable  gestures. 
"Sure  your  Honor  will  spare  a  shilling,"  he  said, 
coaxingly,  "to  drink  your  Honor's  health." 

The  old  woman  Molly  hobbled  up  close  to  him, 
peering  at  him  with  her  wrinkled  face.  "Give  me 
the  price  of  the  tay,  agra,"  she  implored. 

The  politician  resented  the  interruption  of  his 
task,  and  he  had  the  economist's  dislike  for  mendic- 
ity. He  tried  to  go  on  with  his  task  without  paying 
any  heed  to  the  petitionings  of  the  beggars,  but  the 
beggars  were  not  to  be  put  off  with  indifference,  and 
persisted  in  their  entreaties.  "Confound  you,  go 
away!"  Rubie  vociferated.  "Don't  you  see  I'm 
busy  ?"  But  he  might  as  well  have  hoped  to  see 
the  ruins  disappear  before  the  sound  of  his  voice  as 
the  determined  supplicants  that  environed  him. 

"Sure,"  said  the  old  woman,  whose  voice  of  en- 
treaty now  seemed  to  be  slightly  blended  with 
menace,  "a  gentleman  with  such  a  kind  face  on  him 
would  never  be  too  busy  to  find  an  old  woman  her 
tay  money." 

"Or  a  pint  of  porter  for  a  poor  old  man,"  Larry 
insinuated,  "and  maybe  a  paper  of  shag  to  put  in  his 
pipe." 

As  Molly  begged  so  Biddy  begged;  as  Larry  im- 
plored so  Patsy  implored.  Then  all  four  voices 
43 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

roared  together,  a  confused  chorus  of  clamorous 
demand.  It  seemed  a  pandemonium  to  the  be- 
wildered and  indignant  politician. 

Mr.  Rubie  closed  his  pocket-book  with  a  snap, 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and  addressed  his  assailants 
in  his  best  House  of  Commons  manner.  "I  am 
firmly  opposed  to  mendicity,"  he  declared,  "and 
disapprove  of  indiscriminate  charity." 

The  little  bare-legged  girl  applauded  him  lustily. 
"Listen  to  the  fine  words  that  flow  from  him,"  she 
cried,  "the  beautiful  turns  of  his  speech." 

The  man  Patsy  came  close  to  Mr.  Rubie  and 
entreated,  "Just  a  pint  of  porter,  your  Honor,"  in  a 
wheedling  voice. 

The  old  woman  thrust  her  claw-like  hand  close 
to  Mr.  Rubie's  face.  "Only  the  price  of  the  tay," 
she  demanded,  fiercely. 

Wherever  Mr.  Rubie  turned,  one  of  the  crowd 
faced  him — now  the  old  witch,  now  the  girlish  imp, 
now  the  red,  short  Larry,  now  the  long,  pale  Patsy. 
Mr.  Rubie  felt  that  it  would  be  undignified  to  take 
to  his  heels,  and  he  plainly  saw  that  any  slower  mode 
of  progress  would  mean  the  escort  of  the  beggars  for 
all  the  length  of  his  return  journey.  Yet  he  was 
obdurate  in  his  resolve  not  to  be  cajoled  into  satisfy- 
ing their  demands,  and  so  he  grew  hotter  and  angrier 
as  the  noise  increased,  and  those  that  made  it  showed 
no  sign  of  willingness  to  take  their  dismissal  at  Mr. 
Rubie's  command. 

While  the  din  was  at  its  worst  it  was  suddenly 


"BARREN,    BARREN,    BEGGARS    ALL" 

silenced  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  Englishman,  turning 
to  see  what  had  worked  this  wonder,  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  a  beautiful  girl  who  seemed  to 
have  come  upon  the  scene  by  enchantment.  The 
noise  of  the  beggars  petitioning  had  risen  to  Crania's 
retreat  in  the  Round  Tower  and  brought  the  girl  to 
the  door,  whence  she  saw,  and  must  needs  smile,  a 
little  at  the  sight,  the  stranger  being  badgered.  But 
if  she  smiled  at  the  scene,  she  would  by  no  means 
allow  it  to  continue.  Swiftly  she  descended  the 
ladder,  and,  flinging  herself  into  the  thick  of  the  little 
mob,  scattered  its  members  apart  with  fierce  words 
of  reproof,  to  which  the  beggars  listened  in  silence. 
Grania  was  really  angry,  for  all  that  she  had  been 
amused  by  the  plight  of  the  beleaguered  visitor. 
"For  shame!"  she  cried,  "for  shame!"  as  she  ad- 
dressed in  turn  each  of  the  offenders  by  name.  Mr. 
Rubie,  all  amazement,  listening  to  and  staring  at 
this  divine  fairy  that  had  so  suddenly  hurled  herself 
upon  his  enemies,  heard  so  much  and  understood  it. 
He  heard  much  more,  but  understood  no  word.  For 
Grania,  who  had  begun  her  scolding  in  English,  in 
order  that  the  Sassenach  might  appreciate  her 
disavowal  and  disapproval  of  the  conduct  of  her 
friends,  became  instantly  unwilling  to  berate  her 
compatriots  in  a  speech  intelligible  to  the  stranger, 
and  so  slipped  swiftly  into  the  Gaelic.  In  the 
Gaelic  she  upbraided  them  with  a  vehemence  that 
impressed  the  uncomprehending  Rubie  and  that 
reduced  the  beggars  to  abject  subjection. 
45 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Rubie  was  far  from  being  an  impressionable 
man,  but  what  he  now  witnessed  impressed  him  as 
he  had  never  been  impressed  since  the  night,  now 
long  ago,  when  he  had  been  taken  to  the  playhouse 
and  had  seen  a  famous  actress  in  the  part  of  Portia. 
He  gaped  at  the  glorious  girl  who  was  clad  like  a 
beggar  and  who  carried  herself  like  a  queen;  he 
observed  with  dazzled  gaze  the  color  of  her  lips  and 
eyes  and  hair,  the  suave  symmetry  of  her  figure,  the 
buoyancy  of  her  youth;  he  listened  with  bewitched 
ear  to  the  fluent  music,  like  the  music  of  running 
water,  of  that  to  him  unknown  tongue.  Mr.  Rubie 
in  his  enchantment  would  have  been  content  to  be 
denounced  by  such  a  lovely  creature.  To  be  de- 
fended by  her  was  a  rapture  akin  to  the  winning  of  a 
close  division. 

The  old  woman,  speaking  the  first,  and  speaking 
in  English,  with  a  view  to  touching  the  heart  of  the 
Parliament-man,  addressed  Grania  apologetically, 
as  reverently  as  if  she  were  addressing  a  queen. 
"Sure,  Miss  Grania,  darling,"  she  pleaded,  "there's 
no  harm  in  asking  a  gentleman  with  a  benevolent 
face  on  him,  for  a  poor  little  bit  of  a  sixpence." 

There  was  a  murmur  from  the  others  which  im- 
plied, under  submission  to  Crania's  better  judgment, 
agreement  with  Molly's  plea,  but  it  faded  into 
silence  before  Crania's  instant  disapproval.  "Yes, 
there  is,  great  harm,"  the  girl  answered,  severely; 
and  the  old  woman  and  the  old  woman's  companions 
accepted  the  reproof  humbly,  shrinking  into  them- 
46 


"BARREN    BARREN,    BEGGARS    ALL" 

selves  before  the  anger  of  one  that  was  little  more 
than  a  girl,  but  who  was  a  girl  of  the  O'Haras,  the 
child  of  a  hero  of  Ninety-eight. 

Mr.  Rubie  meanwhile,  honestly  amazed  at  all 
that  was  happening,  had  stood  open-mouthed  and 
dumfounded,  gaping  and  staring  at  the  alterca- 
tion between  his  late  opponents  and  the  beautiful 
girl  who  seemed  to  dominate  them  so  completely. 
All  his  confidence,  his  composure,  his  cocksureness 
had  momentarily  vanished.  His  House  of  Com- 
mons manner  had  fallen  from  him  like  a  cloak;  he 
was  just  an  ordinary,  commonplace  looker-on.  With 
an  effort  he  rallied,  pulled  himself  together,  assured 
himself  that  this  would  never  do.  Spurring  him- 
self to  action,  Mr.  Rubie  advanced  toward  Grania, 
raising  his  hat  and  assuming  something  of  the 
manner  that  was  wont  to  impress  St.  Stephen's. 
"Have  I  the  honor,"  he  said,  with  what  he  believed 
to  be  a  happy  blend  of  suavity  and  dignity,  "of 
addressing  Miss  O'Hara?" 

Grania  nodded  and  smiled,  and  it  seemed  to  the  as- 
tonished politician  as  if  he  had  never  seen  a  woman 
smile  before.  "You  have  that,"  she  said,  simply. 

The  Member  of  Parliament  made  her  another 
bow  and  presented  himself  formally.  "My  name 
is  Rubie,"  he  said,  "John  Rubie,  Member  of 
Parliament.  I  am  Lord  Cloyne's  guest  at  the 
Hall.  I  was  engaged  in  making  a  sketch  of  yonder 
Round  Tower  when  these  good  people  came  upon 
me,  and,  I  must  confess,  took  me  by  surprise.  You 
47 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

must  not  think  me  close-fisted,  Miss  O'Hara,  or 
callous  to  distress,  but  I  have  strong  views  about 
indiscriminate  charity." 

Had  Mr.  Rubie  been  addressing  the  assembled 
Parliament,  had  he  been  delivering  himself  to  a  meet- 
ing of  some  earnest  society  for  the  promotion  of  this 
and  the  propagation  of  that,  had  he  been  exchang- 
ing ideas  at  a  tea  party  in  one  of  the  elegant  villas 
of  South  London  that  sheltered  so  much  philan- 
thropy and  aimed  at  so  much  reform,  his  manner 
would  have  been  admired,  his  words  would  have 
been  esteemed  and  his  sentiments  would  have  been 
applauded.  But  the  wisest  of  economists  is  at  a 
disadvantage  when  he  expounds  his  views  to  an 
audience  that  knows  nothing  whatever  of  economics, 
that  knows,  indeed,  of  little  more  than  the  fact  that 
it  is  always  hungry,  always  ill-clad,  often  cold 
and  often  wet.  What  the  Parliament-man  de- 
nounced as  indiscriminate  charity  was  to  those  poor 
wretches  as  the  unexpected  manna,  as  the  rare  favor 
of  fate  that  flung  for  an  instant,  capriciously,  some 
pitiful  share  of  the  good  and  desirable  things  of 
the  world  into  their  lean  hands  and  their  drawn 
stomachs. 

Therefore  the  little  fellowship  of  wretchedness 
listened  to  the  expression  of  Mr.  Ruble's  economic 
theories  with  a-  manifest  disapproval  for  which 
Biddy  alone  ventured  to  find  voice.  "Sure  you 
said  that  before,  darlin',"  the  bare-legged  girl  said, 
with  a  chuckle. 

48 


"BARREN,    BARREN,    BEGGARS    ALL" 

Her  companions  grinned  their  satisfaction,  and 
Mr.  Rubie  endeavored  with  no  great  measure  of 
success  to  look  as  if  he  had  not  heard  and  to  con- 
ceal his  annoyance.  Grania  lifted  a  reproving 
finger  and  reduced  Biddy  to  silence.  Then  she 
turned  to  the  irritated  politician,  and  the  sound  of 
her  voice  soothed  his  exasperated  nerves. 

"You  are  quite  in  the  right  of  it,  Mr.  Rubie,"  she 
said,  "and  I  hate  to  see  my  country-people  begging 
of  strangers." 

Rubie  protested.  He  was  himself  again,  and  as 
ready  to  be  pompous  on  the  soil  of  Kerry  as  on  the 
floor  of  St.  Stephen's.  "Please  don't  call  me  a 
stranger,  Miss  O'Hara,"  he  entreated.  "We  are 
all  one  people  now  under  the  Union — sharing  com- 
mon hopes,  common  interests,  common  purposes — " 
The  swell  of  his  eloquence  was  suddenly  stayed. 

"Are  we  that  same?"  Grania  interrupted,  ironi- 
cally. "Why,  it's  fine  news  you'd  be  telling  me 
if  it  only  chanced  to  be  true.  Would  you  be  say- 
ing that  we  have  common  laws,  too  ?" 

Mr.  Rubie  thought  of  the  penal  laws  and  changed 
his  note.  He  began  on  a  fresh  tack.  "If  these 
poor  creatures  are  really  in  want,"  he  said,  in- 
dicating with  a  forensic  gesture  the  little  riot  of 
beggars  who  huddled  together  in  manifest  dejec- 
tion, with  their  gaze  fixed  wistfully  on  the  girl 
whom  they  so  faithfully  obeyed,  though  her  coming 
had  shattered  their  hopes. 

Again  Grania  interrupted  him.  "Do  you  think, 
49 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Rubie,"  pointing  to  the  four  people  whose  rags 
would  have  been  disdained  by  any  self-respecting 
scarecrow,  and  whose  faces  were  pinched  with 
hunger  and  suffering,  "they  dress  like  that  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  thing  ?" 

"'Well,  you  know,"  Mr.  Rubie  suggested,  "we 
have  professional  beggars  in  England."  Mr.  Rubie 
felt  and  looked  embarrassed.  The  misery  of  the 
mendicants  was  patent  enough,  and  he  felt  re- 
morseful for  his  economic  sternness.  He  tried  to 
justify  himself. 

"These  troubles  are  genuine  enough,"  Grania 
said,  sadly,  and  for  a  moment  the  bitter  water 
filled  her  eyes. 

The  beggars  heard  her,  the  beggars  saw  her. 
They  raised  a  little  wail  like  a  keen. 

Mr.  Rubie  was  touched  to  a  degree  that  would 
have  surprised  him  if  he  had  had  time  to  analyze 
his  emotions.  "Then  pray  allow  me  to  offer  some 
small  relief,"  he  said,  earnestly.  He  put  his  hand 
in  his  breeches  pocket  as  he  spoke  and  pulled  out 
a  handful  of  silver.  He  turned  to  the  beggars  whose 
presence  he  had  resented  so  hotly  a  few  minutes 
before.  "Here!"  he  cried,  and  held  out  his  hands 
with  its  generous  contents  toward  the  poor  creatures 
who  hurried  eagerly  forward  with  gleaming  eyes 
and  clawing  fingers. 

But  Grania  again  intervened  between  them  and 
the  stranger.  "Don't  run  from  one  extreme  to  the 
other,  Mr.  Rubie,"  she  said,  quietly,  as  with  one 
50 


"BARREN,  BARREN,  BEGGARS  ALL" 

extended  hand  she  restrained  the  advance  of  the 
beggars  and  with  the  other  she  waved  aside  the 
proffered  bounty.  "If  you  mean  to  be  generous 
I  will  make  bold  to  borrow  this  crown."  She  took 
out  a  crown  piece  delicately  from  the  little  pile  of 
silver  that  lay  on  Mr.  Rubie's  broad,  expanded  palm 
and  held  it  out  to  Larry,  who  shambled  hurriedly 
toward  her.  "Here,  Larry,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  as  gentle  now  as  it  had  been  stern  a  while  ago; 
"here  is  a  crown  for  you  all  from  this  kind  gen- 
tleman. Take  it  and  divide  it  fair  among  the  lot 
of  you;  divide  it  fair,  I  say,  for  if  you  don't  I  shall 
hear  of  it,  and  have  a  small  word  of  my  own  to  say 
to  you." 

Larry  touched  his  forehead  respectfully,  first  to 
the  girl  and  then  to  the  Englishman.  "Yes,  Miss 
Grania,"  he  said,  humbly.  Inwardly  he  reflected 
that  after  all  they  had  not  done  so  badly.  The 
crown  divided  up  would  amount  to  more  than  a 
shilling  apiece,  and  they  could  scarcely  have  dared 
to  hope  for  more  than  a  sixpence  each  from  the 
stranger,  so  the  morning  had  not  been  unprofitable. 

At  a  gesture  from  Grania  the  little  crowd  of 
beggars,  after  much  shuffling  and  scraping,  trooped 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  and  Grania  and 
Mr.  Rubie  were  left  face  to  face. 


VI 

SOME    STATISTICS 

MR.  RUBIE  gave  a  little  apologetic  cough.  "I 
hope  you  do  not  think  me  stingy — "  he  began. 

But  Grania  stayed  him,  smiling.  "You  have 
just  proved  the  contrary,"  she  asserted.  As  she 
spoke  she  seated  herself  comfortably  on  the  hillside, 
and  invited  Rubie  with  a  gesture  to  do  the  like. 
As  he  obeyed  he  felt,  to  his  surprise,  like  a  subject  in 
the  presence  of  his  queen. 

Seated,  he  pursued  his  theme.  "  But  on  principle 
I  detest  mendicity,"  he  continued,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  was  accustomed  to  have  his  principles  and 
his  expositions  thereof  respected. 

Grania  only  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "If  you 
make  slaves  of  people,"  she  said,  quietly,  "they  will 
acquire  the  vices  of  slaves." 

Rubie  protested,  pawing  the  air,  against  such 
extravagances  of  thought  and  speech.  "Really, 
Miss  O'Hara,"  he  cried,  "slaves!  What  an  ex- 
pression. I  admit  to  errors  in  the  past,  but  now, 
the  Union — our  best  intentions — " 

Grania  showed  a  decided  determination  to  change 
the  subject.  "It's  no  use  our  talking  politics,  Mr. 
52 


SOME    STATISTICS 

Ruble,"  she  said,  emphatically.  Then  seeing  that 
Mr.  Rubie  looked  somewhat  crestfallen  at  her 
abruptness,  she  continued,  more  amiably.  "What 
are  you  doing  in  Ireland,  if  I  may  make  so  bold  as 
to  ask  ?" 

Rubie  beamed  anew  at  this  suggestion  of  interest 
in  his  doings,  though  he  was  inwardly  astonished  at 
his  pleasure  in  the  girl's  condescension.  "Why, 
Miss  O'Hara,"  Rubie  explained,  "I  have  crossed 
St.  George's  Channel  to  see  something  of  Ireland  for 
myself,  that  I  may  be  the  better  equipped  to  speak 
with  authority  in  the  House.  I  conceive  that  Irish 
affairs  are  worthy  of  the  pains  of  a  personal  in- 
spection." 

Grania  was  vastly  amused  by  the  self-importance 
of  the  traveler,  but  she  kept  her  amusement  sedu- 
lously to  herself.  "They  are  so,"  Grania  agreed, 
cordially. 

Mr.  Rubie  leaned  forward  and  addressed  the  girl 
in  a  low,  confidential  voice,  the  low,  confidential 
voice  that  he  used  on  occasions  when  he  made  his 
way  to  the  Treasury  Bench  to  breathe  some  wisdom 
into  a  minister's  ear. 

"I  want  to  know  Ireland,"  he  said  seriously,  "to 
absorb  Ireland,  to  exhaust  Ireland.  I  mean  to  be 
the  one  man  in  the  House  of  Commons  that  knows 
all  about  Ireland." 

Grania  looked  at  the  stolid  face,  whose  solidity 
was  now  slightly  shaken  by  the  earnestness  of  his 
purpose.  He  was  scarcely  less  of  a  marvel  to  her 
5  53 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

than  she  was  to  him.  There  were  many  types  of 
men  in  the  kingdom  of  Kerry,  from  my  Lord  Cloyne 
to  Larry,  but  there  was  never  one  of  them  that  bore 
the  least  resemblance  to  the  serious  and  pompous 
personage  who  seemed  convinced  that  it  was  his 
mission  to  set  the  world  in  order.  There  was  no 
shadow  of  a  smile  upon  her  face  as  she  asked  him 
quietly,  "Is  that  all  you  are  after  ?" 

Mr.  Rubie  nodded  agreement.  It  seemed,  after 
all,  a  little  thing  for  a  man  of  his  power  and 
standing. 

"So," he  continued  confidently,  "I  have  come  over 
to  collect  all  the  statistics  I  can  about  the  country." 
Grania  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  clasping  her 
hands  about  her  knees.  The  word  was  not  a 
familiar  one  to  her.  "What  do  you  mean  by  sta- 
tistics ?"  she  asked. 

Mr.  Rubie  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  What, 
he  asked  himself,  could  a  young  woman  have  been 
doing  with  her  life  to  be  unaware  of  the  very  mean- 
ing of  statistics,  to  say  nothing  of  their  vast  range 
and  economical  value  ?  He  consented  graciously  to 
explain.  "Oh,  you  know,  acreage,  mileage,  crops, 
population,  crime,  emigration,  religions,  factions, 
and  so  on  and  so  on."  His  explanation  trailed  off, 
because  he  felt  vaguely  and  uncomfortably  conscious 
of  a  certain  quizzical  expression  on  Crania's  face 
and  a  certain  mocking  light  in  Crania's  eyes, 
which  decidedly  disconcerted  him. 
Grania  leaned  a  little  nearer  to  him  and  smiled. 
54 


SOME    STATISTICS 

"If  you  like,"  she  said,  "I  can  give  you  some  statis- 
tics about  Ireland." 

Mr.  Rubie,  who  had  unwillingly  shrunk  a  little 
before  that  quizzical  expression  which  he  believed 
he  had  detected,  expanded  again  under  the  influ- 
ence of  this  offer.  After  all,  the  young  lady  might 
prove  more  sensible  than  she  seemed.  She  cer- 
tainly was  lovelier  than  any  of  the  young  ladies  he 
used  to  meet  in  the  houses  of  the  philanthropists  and 
politicians  of  the  Clapham  School.  But  that  was 
no  reason  for  regretting  that  her  views  of  life  ap- 
peared so  hopelessly  impractical.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  he  might  get  some  valuable  facts  from  the  girl. 
"Can  you  ?"  he  cried,  briskly.  "That  will  be  very 
obliging  of  you." 

"  I  can  give  you  some  of  the  real  statistics,"  she 
said,  "the  statistics  that  mean  things."  She  paused 
for  a  moment,  to  let  her  words  sink  into  the  mind  of 
her  listener  and  to  note  the  ripples  of  satisfaction 
they  raised  on  that  round  face.  Then  she  asked, 
softly,  "Do  you  know  what  a  merrow  is  ?" 

Mr.  Rubie  shook  his  head.  He  was  one  of  those 
persons  who  do  not  like  to  have  to  admit  that  there 
was  anything  they  did  not  know,  but  in  this  instance 
he  was  wholly  at  a  loss.  A  merrow  might  be  some 
article  of  commerce  or  a  member  of  a  secret  society 
or  some  piece  of  wearing  apparel,  for  all  that  he 
could  tell.  "I  fear  I  do  not,"  he  admitted,  shaking 
his  head. 

Crania  expounded  unto  him,  and  as  she  spoke  her 
55 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

voice  had  a  lilt  in  it  as  if  she  were  singing  a  song. 
"A  merrow  is  a  sea-maiden,  a  mermaid,  a  beautiful 
creature  half  woman,  half  fish,  that  swims  in  the 
still  water  among  the  cliff-caves  and  sings  songs  that 
make  men  mad.  I  have  heard  her  a  thousand  times." 

Mr.  Rubie  was  perplexed.  He  did  not  quite  know 
whether  to  be  amused  or  indignant.  This  was  not 
the  kind  of  answer  he  had  expected  when  he  avowed 
his  thirst  for  knowledge.  Yet  the  girl  did  not  seem 
to  be  laughing.  Her  face  was  grave  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  and  she  seemed  to  find  a  pleasure  in 
her  words.  "  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  follow  you,"  he 
said,  rather  stiffly. 

Grania  did  not  seem  to  heed  what  he  said.  She 
went  on  with  her  theme,  and  her  voice  still  had  in  it 
the  ripple  of  singing.  "  Then  there  is  the  banshee — 
it  is  most  important  that  you  should  know  all  about 
the  banshee,  the  gray,  wan  woman  that  waits  on  a 
great  house  and  wails  for  the  death  of  its  darlings." 

Mr.  Rubie  looked  and  was  extremely  puzzled. 
He  smoothed  his  chin  dubiously.  "Very  interest- 
ing, I'm  sure,"  he  said,  very  politely,  but  his  polite- 
ness had  no  effect  in  staying  the  stream  of  Crania's 
eloquence. 

"And  then  there  is  the  leprechaun,"  she  went  on, 
"with  his  green  coat  and  his  red  cap,  that  can  make 
your  fortune  if  you  catch  him.  And  the  pooka,  the 
goblin  that  goes  like  a  horse  and  rides  across  your 
path  to  your  undoing.  And  all  the  rest  of  the  little 
people,  the  only  Irish  you  can't  drive  out  of  Ireland." 
56 


SOME    STATISTICS 

Mr.  Rubie  felt  that  it  was  time  to  assert  himself  if 
he  was  to  retain  any  of  his  sense  of  the  dignity  of  a 
self-respecting  Member  of  Parliament  engaged 
upon  a  self-appointed  mission.  "You  are  making 
game  of  me,"  he  said,  emphatically. 

Grania  swung  back  in  an  instant  to  her  every-day 
way  of  speech  and  shook  her  head  vigorously. 
"Making  game  of  you!  Bless  you!  no,  I  am  telling 
you  true  things.  You  want  to  know  all  about  the 
Irish,  and  I  am  telling  you  of  the  things  that  the 
Irish  see,  that  the  Irish  believe  in,  that  the  Irish 
understand  better  than  you  understand  your  facts 
and  your  figures." 

Rubie  protested  in  a  shocked  voice.  "Really, 
Miss  O'Hara,  I  fear  these  are  not  the  facts  I  left 
London  to  seek." 

"  But  these  are  the  facts  you  left  London  to  find," 
Grania  replied,  vehemently,  "if  you  have  only  the 
eye  that  can  see  and  the  ear  that  can  hear.  The 
fairies,  the  wonder-world,  the  Land  of  Youth.  If 
you  go  away  knowing  nothing  of  them  and  what 
they  mean  to  us  you  have  only  wasted  your  time. 
Better  have  remained  at  home  talking  nonsense  in 
Westminster." 

Mr.  Rubie  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears  when 
he  heard  such  blasphemy.  "Good  God!  madam," 
he  cried,  "you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  be- 
lieve in  fairies  and  mermaids  and  goblins  like 
horses'" 

Grania  grinned  at  him  mischievously.  "What 
57 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

harm  if  I  do  ?"  she  asked.  "They  are  more  real  to 
me  than  laws  of  Parliament  or  Acts  of  Union. 
There  are  times  when  they  seem  to  me  the  only 
real  things  in  the  world,  they  and  what  they  mean 
to  me." 

Mr.  Rubie  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  for  some 
moments  without  speaking,  rubbing  his  chin  the 
while.  Then  he  said,  slowly,  "I  wonder  what  Mr. 
Burke  or  Mr.  Fox  would  have  said  to  such  an 
astonishing  statement." 

Grania  did  not  seem  to  be  much  impressed  by 
Mr.  Rubie's  speculation.  "From  what  I've  heard 
tell  of  the  pair  of  them,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  they 
would  have  understood  it  better  than  you  seem  to  do. 
On,  man  in  the  blue  coat  and  the  buff  waistcoat,  do 
try  to  see  that  there  are  things  undreamed  of  in  your 
philosophy  that  are  no  less  than  the  breath  of  life 
to  others.  There  is  more  of  God's  real  truth  in  a 
fairy  tale  told  by  a  turf  fire  than  in  all  the  debates 
at  Westminster." 


VII 

THE   MAN   WITH   THE    FIDDLE 

MR.  RUBIE,  as  he  watched  the  girl's  animated 
face  and  listened  to  the  girl's  animated  words, 
began  to  find  that  his  situation  was  very  enjoyable 
indeed,  if  a  trifle  unusual  and  perplexing  to  a 
methodical  economist  of  plain  habit  of  life  and 
mind.  He  had  certainly  come  to  Ireland  with  the 
settled  intention  of  amassing  a  quantity  of  fact 
which  should  prove  invaluable  to  him  in  the  course 
of  Irish  debate  in  Parliament,  and  might  afterward 
form  the  substance  of  a  handsome  volume  of  per- 
sonal impressions  and  philosophical  reflections 
upon  the  country.  But  he  certainly  had  not,  when 
he  set  out  prosaically  upon  his  travels,  any  idea 
that  his  experiences  would  include  such  a  meeting 
and  such  a  talk  as  this  present.  Here  he  was,  a 
grave  and  sober  member  of  Parliament,  with  an 
established  position  in  the  House,  with  Treasury 
Bench  ambitions  and  a  profound  belief  in  the 
authority  of  statistics,  seated  on  an  Irish  hillside 
under  the  shadow  of  an  Irish  ruin  and  talking 
familiarly  with  a  beautiful  girl  that  was  dressed 
like  a  peasant,  a  girl  whom  he  had  never  seen  or 
59 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

heard  of  before  that  hour,  about  fairies  and  gnomes 
and  goblins  and  the  like. 

Mr.  Rubie  had  not  talked  of  fairies,  he  had  not 
given  goblins  a  thought  since  his  earliest  childhood. 
Even  as  a  child  he  had  been  practical,  inclined 
rather  to  records  of  voyages  and  explorations,  and 
the  advantages  commercial  and  territorial  that  they 
brought  to  England,  than  of  those  voyages  which 
poets  and  dreamers  make  in  their  enchanted 
shallops  over  the  moonlit  waters  of  fantasy  to  the 
Fortunate  Islands  and  the  kingdoms  of  romance. 
It  is  probable  that  if  such  a  conversation  could  have 
arisen  in  his  own  country,  if  any  of  the  many 
estimable  young  ladies  he  was  wont  to  encounter 
in  the  refined  society  of  Clapham  Common  had 
attempted  to  turn  the  talk  to  fairy-land,  he  would 
have  resisted  it  more  stubbornly  and  scornfully. 
But  he  was  compelled  to  admit,  against  his  better 
judgment,  but,  oddly  enough,  not  altogether  against 
his  wish,  that  there  was  something  in  the  atmos- 
phere around  him — the  smell  of  the  grass  and  the 
smell  of  the  sea,  and  the  faint  smell  of  burning  turf 
blown  toward  his  nostrils  by  the  mild  December 
wind  from  the  distant  village — that  seemed  to  exer- 
cise a  narcotic  influence  upon  his  mind  and  make 
it  ready  to  accept  the  seemingly  incredible,  unready 
to  protest  against  the  fantastical  propositions  of 
Grania. 

He  looked  at  the  girl's  flushed  face  and  her  bright 
eyes,  and  he  listened  to  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
60 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE    FIDDLE 

she  defended  the  veritability  of  those  many-shaped 
dwellers  in  the  dominions  of  dreams,  and  as  he 
looked  and  listened  he  felt  less  and  less  like  the 
formal  politician  that  it  was  his  pride  to  be,  and  more 
and  more  like  one  that  drifts  into  a  dangerous  mood 
of  acquiescence.  Under  the  influence  of  such  a 
mood  he  might,  were  he  taken  unawares,  be  ready 
to  admit  that  a  ballad  might  be  as  useful  as  a  Blue 
Book,  a  fairy  tale  as  precious  as  a  Parliamentary 
Report.  If  the  mood  was  unusual  to  Mr.  Rubie 
it  certainly  was  far  from  unpleasant,  and  he  per- 
mitted himself  to  yield  to  it  and  would  have  been 
glad  if  it  had  persisted,  but  it  was  not  to  persist. 
Even  at  the  moment,  when  Mr.  Rubie  was  most 
ready  to  recognize  the  sovereignty  of  Oberon  and 
the  hierarchy  of  his  imps,  interruption  came  with  a 
new-comer  who  emerged  from  the  ruins  of  the  old 
church. 

The  new-comer  was  a  young  man  of  a  good  height, 
a  sturdy  carriage,  a  handsome  countenance,  and  a 
pleasing  appearance.  Though  he  was  habited  little 
better  than  a  peasant,  he  had  not  the  peasant's  bear- 
ing, with  its  time-enforced  suggestion  of  servility. 
On  the  contrary,  this  youth  in  his  overworn,  faded 
raiment  bore  himself  with  an  air  of  surly  independ- 
ence that  was  wholly  untainted  by  any  appearance 
of  a  desire  to  curry  favor.  The  frieze  he  was  clad 
in  might  be  worn  to  the  thread,  but  the  body  it 
veiled  bore  itself  with  an  assertion  of  equality  with 
all  the  world  that  was  frankly  arrogant  and  patently 
61 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

native.  Mr.  Rubie  noticed  that  the  intruder 
carried  a  fiddle  under  his  arm,  and  took  him  to  be 
what  he  was  not.  He  believed  that  he  saw  before 
him  one  of  those  itinerant  musicians  of  whom  he 
had  heard  from  all  those  that  professed  to  know 
anything  of  Ireland,  those  fiddlers  that  drift  from 
village  to  village,  from  wedding  to  wedding,  from 
wake  to  wake,  striving  here  to  accentuate  hilarity, 
seeking  there  to  dissimulate  grief,  and  are  content 
to  be  paid  for  their  pains  with  a  little  food,  drink, 
a  few  pence,  and  much  applause. 

Mr.  Rubie  found  somewhat  to  his  surprise  that 
he  resented  the  interruption  to  his  conversation 
with  a  feeling  of  disapproval  quite  unworthy  of  a 
disciple  of  Mr.  Burke  and  Mr.  Fox.  Although  he 
regarded  the  conversation  he  had  just  been  having 
with  Grania  as  undoubtedly  nonsensical,  he  had 
discovered  to  his  amazement  that  there  might  be, 
even  for  a  promising  Member  of  Parliament,  a 
certain  amount  of  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from 
the  talking  of  nonsense.  Certainly  it  would  have 
pleased  him  to  continue  talking  nonsense  on  that 
Irish  hillside  with  that  Irish  girl  for  an  indefinite 
period  of  time,  and  he  would  not  have  exchanged 
the  grotesque  information  that  Grania  had  given 
him  of  the  ways  of  fairy-land  for  the  most  impor- 
tant communications  on  agriculture  that  he  could 
have  received  from  the  chairmen  of  a  hundred  Boards 
of  Guardians.  He  found  now,  on  awakening,  as  it 
were,  from  his  dream,  that  he  had  felt  surpris- 
62 


THE    MAN   WITH   THE    FIDDLE 

ingly  young  as  he  listened  to  Crania's  legends. 
Mr.  Speaker  and  the  Opposition  and  the  Treasury 
Bench  and  the  philanthropists  and  the  ladies  of 
Clapham  Common  had  faded  into  vagueness,  and 
for  the  moment  Mr.  Rubie  was  a  child  again,  a 
child  in  the  nursery,  and  enraptured  by  a  nursery 
rhyme.  Now,  suddenly,  the  spell  was  broken  by 
the  appearance  of  this  stalwart  intruder  whose 
coming  so  much  displeased  Mr.  Rubie. 

If,  however,  Mr  Rubie  resented  the  coming  of  the 
young  man,  the  young  man  seemed  to  resent  quite 
as  keenly  the  presence  of  Mr.  Rubie.  He  stared  at 
him  steadfastly  with  an  air  of  unamiable  surprise, 
and  then  sent  to  Grania  a  questioning  glance. 
The  girl  had  turned  eagerly  toward  the  young  man 
the  moment  that  he  made  his  appearance,  and  Mr. 
Rubie  noticed  with  a  feeling  of  resentment  as  ex- 
treme as  it  was  unreasonable  that  the  presence  of 
the  young  man  gave  the  young  woman  a  gratification 
that  she  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal.  It  did  not  take 
the  active  young  man  a  long  time  to  ascend  the  hill- 
slope  from  the  ruins  to  the  spot  where  Grania  and 
Mr.  Rubie  were  standing,  but  it  was  long  enough  to 
allow  Mr.  Rubie  to  experience  and  to  cherish  feelings 
which  if  he  had  been  aware  of  their  existence  in 
another  breast  he  would  have  described  and  con- 
demned as  jealousy.  In  himself  he  sought  to 
justify  them  as  the  natural  emotion  consequent 
upon  the  interruption  of  an  original  and  unconven- 
tional conversation. 

63 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

"Good-day  to  you,  Grania,"  the  young  man  said, 
directly  looking  at  the  girl. 

Rubie  instantly  noticed  that  the  young  man,  for  all 
his  humble  appearance,  spoke  in  an  educated  voice 
whose  tones  were  very  melodious. 

The  girl  greeted  the  youth  joyously.  "Good-day 
to  you,  Dennis,"  she  said,  but  the  warmth  of  her 
greeting  did  not  succeed  in  dissipating  the  cloud  of 
gloom  that  had  overshadowed  the  young  man's 
comely  countenance  from  the  first  moment  that  he 
had  discovered  the  girl  in  talk  with  a  stranger.  He 
was  evidently  a  young  man  who  gave  no  thought  to 
the  concealing  of  any  emotions  he  might  entertain. 

"Is  it  spoiling  conversation  I'm  doing,  coming 
this  way  ?"  he  asked. 

Grania  shook  her  head  emphatically.  "Never 
fear,"  she  protested.  "  I  was  just  talking  of  nothing 
whatever  with  this  gentleman,  that  is  Mr.  Rubie 
by  name,  an  English  Member  of  Parliament,  and  a 
guest  of  My  Lord  Cloyne."  She  turned  to  the 
Member  of  Parliament  and  introduced  the  new- 
comer. "This,"  she  said,  "is  Mr.  Dennis  Tirowen, 
my  very  dear  friend."  She  turned  again  to  the 
youth  and  continued:  "Mr.  Rubie  is  making  a 
study  of  Ireland.  He  is  pleased  to  profess  an  in- 
terest in  the  welfare  of  our  country,  and  I  have  been 
giving  him  some  particulars  which  will,  as  I  hope,  en- 
lighten him,  and,  through  him,  his  countrymen." 
All  this  was  said  without  the  least  suggestion  of  a 
malicious  smile  on  the  fair  face. 
64 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE    FIDDLE 

Mr.  Rubie,  thus  directly  referred  to,  made  one 
bow  to  the  maid  and  another  to  the  man,  and  felt 
himself  called  upon  to  say  something  at  once  just 
and  happy  that  should  sum  up  his  present  impres- 
sions of  Ireland.  Unfortunately,  however,  his  mind 
was  so  confused  by  the  course  of  recent  events  that 
the  man  who  aspired  to  command  the  House  of 
Commons  could  find  nothing  better  to  say  than  a 
murmured  "  Indeed,  indeed."  He  felt  the  helpless 
inadequacy  of  the  words  as  soon  as  he  had  uttered 
them,  and  he  endeavored  to  assume  an  air  of  mag- 
nificent sagacity  blended  with  comprehensive  benev- 
olence. 

The  young  man  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  favor- 
ably impressed  by  Mr.  Rubie.  He  still  regarded 
him  with  a  steady  air  of  unflinching  disapproval, 
and  the  lines  around  his  handsome  mouth  were  de- 
cidedly aggressive  when  he  opened  it  to  speak. 
"That  is  very  condescending  of  you,  sir,"  he  said, 
and  he  said  it  with  a  surliness  of  manner  that  irri- 
tated the  politician,  who  felt  that  he  had  been 
traveling  very  far  indeed  along  the  path  of  affability 
in  forcing  his  voice  and  his  features  into  a  show  of 
liking  for  the  interloper — for  so  Mr.  Rubie  regarded 
Tirowen — which  their  owner  was  very  far  from 
feeling.  The  affability  vanished  instantly. 

"Not  at  all,"  Mr.  Rubie  asserted,  stiffly.     "My 

interest  is  simple  and  straightforward.     I  wish,  as  a 

representative  Englishman,  to  learn  all  that  is  to  be 

learned  about  Ireland.     I   come  without  precon- 

65 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

ceived  views,  and,  as  I  hope,  without  prejudices,  in 
the  pursuit  of  what  I  believe  to  be  my  duty."  He 
turned,  as  he  spoke,  to  Grania,  and  made  her  an- 
other bow.  "With  your  permission,"  he  said,  "I 
will  take  my  leave,  Miss  O'Hara." 

Grania  saw  that  the  good  man  was  offended; 
Grania  extended  a  detaining  hand.  If  she  had 
seemed  charming  before  in  fairy  mood,  she  seemed, 
if  possible,  still  more  charming  now  with  her  pretty 
air  of  regal  graciousness.  "Don't  think  of  it,"  she 
entreated.  "You'll  be  wanting  to  finish  your 
sketch,  and  Dennis  and  I  have  the  whole  of  the 
kingdom  of  Kerry  to  walk  in  and  talk  in." 

In  spite  of  the  suavity  of  Crania's  manner,  Mr. 
Rubie  was  not  to  be  persuaded  to  remain.  He  saw 
that  the  young  man  was  anxious  to  be  rid  of  him, 
which  would  have  affected  him  but  little  in  spurring 
his  departure,  would,  rather,  thanks  to  the  sturdy 
pugnacity  of  his  disposition,  have  urged  him  to  re- 
main and  see  which  would  prove  to  be  the  best  man 
in  the  lady's  favor,  but  Mr.  Rubie  also  saw,  with 
vision  sharpened  by  the  stress  of  unexpected 
emotions,  that  the  girl  was  plainly  anxious  for  the 
company  of  the  young  man,  and  that  if  he  did 
decide  to  remain  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Round 
Tower  and  continue  to  use  his  pencil  the  young  lady 
would  incontinently  wander  into  the  other  world  of 
some  distant  field  or  headland.  As  he  was,  to  his 
surprise,  already  eager  to  please  this  Milesian 
enchantress,  he  put  a  good  face  upon  his  disappoint- 
66 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE    FIDDLE 

ment  and  his  discomfiture.  "Indeed,  I  will  not 
suffer  you  to  move,"  he  protested.  "I  am  very 
little  of  a  draftsman,  and  my  poor  sketch  is  al- 
ready as  good  as  I  can  make  it.  I  have  the  honor 
to  wish  you  good-day."  Again  he  bowed  to  Grania, 
and  as  he  did  so  he  found,  to  his  vexation,  that  he 
was  recalling  and  renewing  a  long-forgotten  mood 
of  early  boyhood  when  it  had  needed  all  his  fortitude 
to  accept  some  disappointment  and  refrain  from 
tears.  Checking  an  unwelcome  and  resented  sigh, 
he  turned  to  Dennis  with  a  cold  inclination  of  the 
head.  It  was  such  a  salutation  as  antagonist  gives 
to  antagonist  before  an  encounter  in  the  arena  of 
debate,  or  say,  rather,  in  the  arena  of  arms.  "  Good- 
day,  sir,"  he  said. 

Dennis  gave  him  back  a  sour  "Good-day,"  and 
Mr.  Rubie,  without  further  parley,  proceeded  to 
retrace  his  steps  to  the  Hall. 


VIII 

THE  TIROWENS 

DENNIS  TIROWEN  was  the  son  of  a  peasant 
farmer  in  a  small  way  of  farming,  one  Hugh 
Tirowen,  a  fellow  with  a  big  body  that  housed  a 
small  mind.  This  same  Hugh  was  himself  a  de- 
scendant of  a  line  of  gentlemen  farmers  in  a  large 
way  that  had  gradually  run  to  seed,  as  it  were,  and 
degenerated  from  a  petty  principality  to  a  garth. 
The  century  of  calamity  that  had  ravaged  Ireland 
since  the  disaster  of  Boyne  River  had  greatly  reduced 
the  possessions  of  the  Tirowens.  The  greed  of  the 
intruders  and  the  severity  of  the  penal  laws  had 
steadily  reduced  the  broad  acres  that  had  made  their 
dominion  to  a  very  small  part  of  their  original  ex- 
tent. There  still  remained,  however,  at  the  time 
when  Dennis  Tirowen's  father  was  a  young  man,  in 
the  fall  of  the  eighteenth  century,  enough  of  the 
original  estate  to  make  a  very  desirable  holding  for 
a  man  of  moderate  desires  and  moderate  abilities. 
There  came  a  point  in  the  elder  Tirowen's  fortune 
when  he  had  to  decide  between  sacrificing  the  rem- 
nant of  the  land  of  his  ancestors  or  sacrificing  his 
conscience  and  his  faith.  He  chose,  as  others  like 
68 


THE    TIROWENS 

him  had  here  and  there  chosen  in  the  harassed 
south  and  west  to  sacrifice  his  conscience  and  his 
faith,  and  he  thereby  obtained  a  secure  tenure  of 
the  diminished  domain  which  otherwise  he  had  no 
right  to  hold  in  law  and  of  which  he  might  at  any 
moment  be  deprived.  The  Cloynes,  who  were 
dominant  in  that  part  of  Kerry,  had  no  such  liking 
for  the  humble  Tirowens  that  they  showed  for  the 
fallen  greatness  of  the  O'Haras,  and  their  claws 
would  have  closed  upon  the  last  poor  leavings  of 
Tirowen  land  if  their  intention  had  not  been  met 
and  defeated  by  what  the  more  steadfast  of  the 
oppressed  regarded  as  the  apostasy  of  Hugh  Tiro- 
wen. 

Hugh  Tirowen,  a  man  of  a  sullen  natural,  soured 
by  a  long  tradition  of  unmerited  misfortune,  con- 
fided to  no  one  the  course  of  the  mental  and  moral 
struggle  which  ended  in  his  public  declaration  of  his 
change  of  creed,  and  no  one  ever  knew  how  far  he 
justified  the  change  to  himself  or  was  afterward 
contented  with  the  change.  Love  of  the  land  would 
count  for  much,  maybe  love  of  the  son  would  count 
for  more,  his  son  Dennis,  for  whose  welfare  he  might 
justify  his  deed.  Having  made  the  change,  he  was 
scrupulously  careful  to  fulfil  all  the  outward  obliga- 
tions due  to  the  ascendant  faith,  and  he  was  regarded 
by  his  fellows  in  that  faith,  with  that  lukewarm  de- 
gree of  approval  usually  accorded  to  a  convert  who 
gains  something  more  than  spiritual  advantages 
by  his  conversion. 

6  69 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

But  there  were  those  during  his  lifetime  who  said 
and  believed  that  the  elder  Tirowen's  conscience 
was  not  at  ease.  It  was  said  and  believed  that  at 
times  his  heart  was  heavy  within  him  for  the  cause 
he  had  abandoned.  There  were  strange  stories 
told  in  whispers  behind  lifted  hands  of  how  the  man 
would  sometimes  rise  early  in  the  morning  and 
creep  unobserved  to  within  seeing  distance  of  one  of 
those  lonely  spots  where  fearful  and  faithful  congre- 
gations assembled  in  defiance  of  the  law  before  the 
little  movable  wooden  shed  that  had  to  serve  the 
persecuted  for  a  chapel  to  celebrate  and  participate 
in  the  mysteries  of  their  religion.  Some  one,  it  was 
said,  once  saw  the  haggard,  ghastly  face  of  Tirowen 
staring  through  a  bush  at  the  edge  of  a  little  hollow 
place  in  which  a  number  of  people  were  kneeling 
before  a  proscribed  priest.  The  beholder  thought  it 
seemed  at  first  that  Tirowen  was  spying  upon  the 
worshipers  with  a  view  to  denouncing  them  to 
authority,  but  another  glance  at  the  man's  working 
face,  wet  forehead,  and  staring  eyes  was  enough  to 
convince  him  that  there  was  no  such  danger.  All 
he  could  read  on  that  writhen  countenance  was  a 
look  of  inextinguishable  remorse.  Very  certainly 
no  denunciation  of  the  secret  meeting  followed. 

Though  Tirowen's  conversion  allowed  him  to 
hold  in  law  the  land  which  was  his  by  right,  it  did 
not  bring  any  special  prosperity  in  its  train.  Hugh 
Tirowen  did  well  enough,  indeed  well  enough  to  be 
able  to  send  his  son  Dennis  to  Dublin  and  give  him 
7° 


THE    TIROWENS 

what  he  called  the  education  of  a  gentleman.  Den- 
nis was  entered  at  Trinity  College  as  a  member  of 
the  state  religion,  although  it  had  always  been  plain 
that  such  religious  inclinations  as  the  young  man 
had,  and  they  were  neither  very  strong  nor  very 
strenuously  avowed,  were  in  favor  of  the  ancient 
faith.  The  old  man  never  made  any  attempt  to 
guide  his  son's  spiritual  inclinations  nor  to  check  in 
the  slightest  degree  any  tendency  in  his  mind  toward 
the  prohibited  creed.  But  he  was  believed  to  be 
glad  when  his  son  was  in  Dublin,  and  it  was  un- 
necessary for  him  to  share  in  his  father's  display  of 
sympathy  to  the  ruling  dogma. 

In  Dublin  Dennis  Tirowen  showed  himself  little 
inclined  to  follow  the  prescribed  lines  of  education 
and  conventional  laws  of  conduct.  He  did  not 
associate  himself  with  the  sincerely  studious,  whose 
passion,  if  passion  it  may  be  called,  seems  to  be  the 
acquirement  of  knowledge  for  acquirement's  sake. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  ally  himself  with  those 
wilder  spirits  of  whom  there  were  so  many  within 
the  walls  of  old  Trinity,  to  whom  learning  was  a 
bogy  to  be  -avoided  as  long  as  there  was  a  bowl  of 
punch  to  brew,  a  horse  to  ride,  or  a  girl  to  kiss. 
Dennis  moved  on  a  way  apart.  The  desire  of 
Dennis's  heart  was  for  music,  for  music  as  expressed 
in  words  and  for  music  as  expressed  in  song.  As  a 
boy  he  had,  like  the  artificial  poet  of  the  dawning 
eighteenth  century,  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the 
numbers  came,  but  unlike  Mr.  Pope,  young  Tirowen 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

followed  a  muse  who  was  a  ruddy  wench  of  the 
country-side,  who  could  speak  the  ancient  speech 
and  had  been  the  true  inspiration  of  popular  music 
for  centuries  back.  Young  Dennis  went  to  Dublin 
with  a  brain  stored  with  an  incredible  treasury  of 
songs  that  he  had  learned  from  the  peasants  with 
whom  he  had  loved  to  play  and  with  a  heart  that 
seemed  ever  to  beat  time  to  the  rhythm  of  the  riddle 
and  pipes. 

Loving  these  songs  and  loving  that  music,  it  was 
natural  for  the  boy  to  imitate  both.  One  conse- 
quence of  his  experiments  was  that  he  was  brought 
into  connection  with  Mr.  Edward  Bunting,  who 
was  then  engaged  in  making  his  collection  of  old 
Irish  ballads.  Mr.  Bunting  gained  not  a  little  aid 
from  Dennis's  extensive  knowledge  of  folk-song, 
and  being  grateful  for  the  younger  man's  help,  and 
pleased  at  the  young  man's  enthusiasm,  made 
him  acquainted  with  Dr.  George  Petrie,  a  young 
man  whose  ardor  in  pursuit  of  Irish  ballad-lore 
was  as  much  keener  than  Bunting's  as  his  knowl- 
edge was  more  extensive.  With  Petrie  the  young 
man  made  many  excursions  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Dublin  collecting  songs  from  the  lips  of  the  peasants, 
and  noting  down  the  music  which  accompanied  the 
words. 

In  these  pleasant,  peaceful  ways  young  Dennis 
spent  the  most  of  his  Dublin  days  in  these  pleas- 
ant, peaceful  ways  and  in  the  furtherance  of  the 
great  work.  For  Dennis  conceived  himself  con- 
72 


THE    TIROWENS 

secrated  to  a  great  work — to  the  writing  of  a  play 
which  was  to  be  a  great  play,  maybe  the  great  play 
of  his  day.  To  the  elaboration  of  this  masterpiece 
he  looked  with  a  simple  confidence  for  fame  and 
fortune.  It  was  to  be  called  "The  Buried  City," 
and  it  dealt  with  the  legend  of  the  ancient  kingdom 
that  was  supposed  to  be  hidden  under  the  waters 
of  Cloyne  Bay.  He  loved  this  work  of  his  for  its 
own  sake,  but  in  truth  he  loved  it  most  for  the 
sake  of  a  girl  named  Grania,  to  whom  he  used  to 
read  it  when  he  was  home  for  his  holidays,  and  in 
whose  sincere  praise  he  found  a  reward  beyond  rubies. 
These  occupations  were  interrupted  suddenly  by 
the  death  of  Dennis's  father,  who  was  found  lifeless 
one  morning  in  a  field  not  far  from  the  farm;  and 
to  Dennis,  as  his  only  child,  the  whole  of  his  prop- 
erty descended.  It  was  not  very  much,  yet  the 
farm  was  snug  enough  to  afford  Dennis  a  sufficient 
livelihood  if  he  were  willing  to  throw  himself  heart 
and  soul  into  the  business  of  a  farmer's  life.  But 
this  was  just  what  Dennis  was  most  unwilling  to  do. 
He  hated  what  he  called  the  monotony  of  a  farmer's 
life;  he  disdained  the  small  returns  that  such  a  life 
could  promise.  Ambition  bubbled  within  him  like 
water  in  a  red-hot  caldron.  He  wanted  the  world's 
praise,  the  world's  homage,  the  red  of  the  world's 
gold,  as  well  as  the  green  of  the  world's  laurels. 
He  was  ambitious  for  himself;  ambitious  for  ambi- 
tion's sake;  but  he  was  also  ambitious  for  the  sake 
of  another,  for  Dennis  Tirowen  was  in  love. 
73 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

In  the  eyes  of  the  country-side  there  yawned  a  gulf 
as  great  as  the  Gap  of  Dunluce  between  Grania 
and  Dennis.  In  the  eyes  of  the  ordinary  foreigner, 
Mr.  Rubie  or  another,  the  girl  in  her  well-worn 
peasant's  dress  would  have  seemed  to  be,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  social  world  as  the  foreigner 
understood  it,  the  inferior  of  the  young  farmer. 
But  to  the  children  of  the  kingdom  of  Kerry  Gra- 
nia was  the  last  of  the  O' Haras  of  Cloyne,  the 
last  of  a  race  of  ancient  name,  the  last  of  a  line 
of  gentlefolk  that  had  led  their  people  time  and 
time  again  in  vain  resistance  to  oppression  and 
that  had  freely  given  their  blood  for  the  cause. 
The  O'Haras  belonged  to  the  essential  aristocracy 
of  Ireland.  This  was  one  of  the  many  things  that 
were  simplicity  itself  to  the  native,  and  an  un- 
solvable  mystery  to  the  stranger.  Dennis  Tirowen 
was  well  enough  in  his  way;  he  had  ox  in  stall, 
money  in  poke,  barn  and  byre.  He  had  even  the 
smack  of  a  remote  gentility  in  his  blood.  But  for 
all  that  he  was  no  more  than  a  workaday  farmer 
in  a  small  way,  and  a  workaday  farmer  in  a  small 
way  was  one  that  must  kneel  in  humility  at  the 
lowest  step  of  the  dais  whereon  the  last  daughter 
of  the  O'Haras  of  Cloyne  metaphorically  sat  en- 
throned. 

These  were  the  simple  facts  that  would  on  the 

face  of  it  have  seemed  to  sunder  Grania  from  Dennis 

and  Dennis  from  Grania  with  the  stroke  of  a  social 

ax.     It  is  true  that  the  legends  of  Kerry,  told  by 

74 


THE    TIROWENS 

the  peat  on  the  hearth,  whispered  under  the  hedge 
in  the  lee  of  the  wind,  included  many  a  brave  tale 
of  the  low-born  lad  that  by  a  courage  worthy  of 
Achilles  and  a  cunning  worthy  of  Odysseus,  and 
generally  by  the  timely  aid  of  the  fairies,  had  won 
the  heart  and  the  hand  of  some  king's  daughter. 
But  what  was  truth  in  legend  was  not  truth  in  life 
in  Ireland  in  the  disillusioning  dawn  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Moreover,  there  hung  over  Den- 
nis a  cloud  not  unlike  to  that  which  in  Celtic 
belief  sometimes  envelops  one  that  is  doomed  to 
ill  fortune — the  cloud  of  dislike  and  distrust  of  the 
changer  of  faiths.  What  Dennis's  faith  actually 
might  be  none  of  his  neighbors  could  precisely 
affirm.  They  took  it  for  granted  that  he  would 
continue  to  hold  his  farm  on  the  same  condi- 
tions as  those  on  which  his  father  had  held  it,  by 
persisting  in  at  least  the  outward  show  of  devotion 
to  the  alien  creed.  But  since  Dennis's  final  return 
from  Dublin  to  take  possession  of  his  inheritance 
he  had  not  shown  himself  in  any  place  of  worship, 
either  church  or  chapel,  and  there  were  those  who 
hinted  that  Dennis  Tirowen  had  gone  a  step  farther 
than  his  father,  and  had  shaken  off  allegiance  to 
any  faith  at  all. 

It  was  notably  to  Dennis's  advantage  in  the 
popular  mind  that  he  could  make  music,  that  he 
could  make  songs,  that  he  knew  by  heart  of  heart 
every  ballad  that  had  ever  been  blown  from  God 
knows  where  to  Kerry,  and  every  tune  that  had 
75 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

ever  been  scraped  on  a  fiddle  or  squeezed  from  the 
pipes,  or  fingered  from  the  harp  since  the  days 
of  Duncad  Mor.  Moreover,  he  could  rhyme  his 
own  ballads  and  make  his  own  music,  playing  it  on 
the  little  fiddle  that  Edward  Bunting,  the  publisher, 
had  given  him,  and  playing  it  in  a  way  that  made  his 
hearers,  people  to  whom  the  love  of  music  is  as 
natural  an  appetite  as  the  need  for  food  and  drink, 
wild  with  delight  while  they  listened.  Dennis  of 
the  Sweet  Mouth  they  named  him  in  a  rapture  as  he 
drifted  hither  and  thither  through  the  kingdom 
when  he  came  back  from  Dublin  for  his  holiday, 
and  Dennis  of  the  Sweet  Mouth  he  was  to  them  still 
now  that  he  was  back  from  Dublin,  as  it  seemed  for 
good,  with  his  farm  to  keep  him  comfortable,  and 
whatever  the  old  man  had  saved  and  left,  and  with 
nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but  to  enjoy  himself 
stringing  songs  and  making  music  and  conquering 
all  things  animate  and  inanimate  with  the  sounds  he 
could  win  from  the  strings  of  his  fiddle,  even  as 
Orpheus  of  old  time  did  with  his  lute.  Dennis 
Tirowen  was  a  man  to  be  admired,  a  man  to  be 
envied,  but  neither  his  admirers  nor  his  enviers 
would  for  one  moment  have  thought  of  regarding 
him  as  the  equal  of  Grania  O'Hara. 

To  do  Dennis  Tirowen  justice,  he  knew  this  as 
well  as  any  of  his  admirers  or  his  enviers.  Neighbor- 
hood and  the  fallen  estate  of  Grania  had  allowed  the 
boy  and  girl  to  become  playmates  in  a  way  that 
would  not,  of  course,  have  been  possible  in  the  days 


THE    TIROWENS 

when  the  O'Haras  were  indeed  the  O'Haras,  the 
brave  days  before  Boyne,  the  days  even  before 
Ninety-eight.  But  if  fantastic  fortune  sanctioned 
a  friendship  between  Dennis  Tirowen,  the  prosper- 
ous farmer's  son,  and  Grania  O'Hara,  the  great 
lady,  that  lived  in  a  cabin  on  her  old-time  estate  by 
favor  of  the  lords  of  Cloyne,  and  earned  her  suste- 
nance by  knitting  and  lace-making,  and  the  showing 
of  the  ruins  to  casual  travelers,  the  farmer's  son  was 
well  aware  of  the  gulf  that  sundered  them.  He 
grew  more  and  not  less  aware  of  it  as  time  went  on, 
and  he  began  to  know  better  his  own  mind  and  his 
own  heart.  The  growing  knowledge  haunted  him — 
seemed  like  a  shadowy  presence,  making  a  third  in 
those  excursions  of  his  in  company  with  George 
Petrie  to  gather  songs  and  tunes;  seemed  to  blend 
itself  insistently  with  the  long-drawn  wailing  beauty 
of  ancient  music,  to  take  possession  of  all  the  love 
lyrics  of  Ireland,  and  make  them  the  pipes  of  its 
meaning.  When  Dennis  returned  to  Cloyne  as  his 
own  master  that  secret  knowledge  had  come  to  its 
full  growth.  Dennis  looked  at  it  steadily,  under- 
stood it  and  himself,  saw  what  he  had  to  do,  and 
made  up  his  mind  to  do  it.  There  was  a  gulf  to  be 
bridged,  but  a  man  of  genius  could  build  the  bridge. 
A  man  of  the  temperament  of  Dennis  Tirowen  is 
always  strangely  exalted  when  he  tunes  his  mind  to 
some  high  resolve.  He  feels  like  another  Hannibal, 
swearing  his  unchangeable  oath  that  he  will  conquer 
Rome  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  The  danger  is 
77 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

with  such  a  one  that  the  resolve  to  achieve  may 
satisfy  the  stimulated  fancy  to  the  abandonment  of 
achievement.  But,  fortunately  or  unfortunately, 
the  ambition  of  Dennis  was  no  less  strong  than  his 
fancy  and  his  belief  in  himself  was  prodigious. 
He  took  the  enthusiasm  of  the  country-side  as  so 
much  earnest  of  his  power,  and  he  assured  himself 
time  and  again,  in  those  communings  with  his  spirit 
which  had  resulted  in  his  present  determination, 
that  he  was  made  for  greatness,  that  his  was  the 
heart,  the  hand,  the  brain  to  win  the  trophies  of  the 
world  and  make  of  them  so  high  a  mountain  as 
should  lift  him  to  the  level  of  his  lady's  lips.  Had 
he  known  that  he  could  win  his  love  in  that  present 
hour  he  would  not  have  accepted  the  gift.  The 
thought  of  any  condescension  galled  him.  He  must 
make  himself  the  equal  of  the  woman  of  his  dreams, 
he  would  make  himself  the  equal  of  the  woman  of  his 
dreams,  and  then,  and  then  alone,  he  would  utter 
the  truth  that  was  in  him  with  the  proud  conscious- 
ness of  peer  addressing  peer. 


IX 

JOURNEYS  START  IN  LOVERS*  PARTING 

FOR  a  short  while  the  pair,  young  man  and 
young  maid,  stood  looking  after  Mr.  Rubie 
in  silence.  When  the  politician  was  out  of  sight 
round  the  be^nd  in  the  road  Grania  turned  and 
gazed  steadily  at  her  companion,  and  there  was 
banter  in  her  eyes  and  banter  on  her  lips  as  she 
noted  his  sullen  bearing  and  sour  regard.  "I'm 
thinking/'  she  said,  slowly,  with  a  teasing  tang  in  her 
voice,  "you've  got  out  of  bed  on  the  wrong  side  this 
morning." 

The  frown  on  the  face  of  Dennis  deepened,  and 
his  whole  bearing,  stiff  enough  already,  seemed  to 
grow  stiffen  "There  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
me  or  my  bed  or  the  morning,"  he  answered,  dog- 
gedly. "I  came  over  here  blithely  enough  in  the 
thought  of  sight  and  speech  of  you.  But  you  can't 
be  surprised  if  I  don't  like  to  see  you  philandering 
with  strangers." 

Grania  burst  out  laughing  as  she  recalled  the 

image  of  the  solemn  foreigner  in   blue   and  buff 

whose  business  in  life  it  appeared  to  be  to  acquire 

statistics.     "Bless  your  heart!"  she  declared,  "we 

79 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

were  not  philandering.  He  was  seeking  for  statis- 
tics, if  you  know  what  they  may  be"  —  Dennis 
nodded  glumly — "and  I  gave  him  some  of  my  own 
which  bewildered  him  a  little,  I  think.  The  good 
man  is  as  grave  as  an  owl,  and  if  he  were  as  gay  as 
a  linnet  he  would  never  be  the  bird  for  my  cage." 

There  seemed  to  Grania  as  she  spoke  something 
especial^  and  refreshingly  diverting  in  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Rubie  as  a  possible  philanderer.  The  earnest 
stranger  from  England,  in  his  blue  coat  and  buff 
waistcoat,  somewhat  stout,  somewhat  florid,  very 
sturdy  and  solid  and  solemn,  with  an  insatiable 
hunger  for  information  and  an  unquenchable  thirst 
for  statistics,  seemed  to  her  a  very  unlikely  person- 
age to  convert  into  a  prosperous  or  even  a  promis- 
ing philanderer.  So  thinking,  she  looked  at  Dennis, 
appraising  and  admiring  the  easy  poise  of  his 
strong  body,  the  proud  carriage  of  the  comely  head, 
and  as  she  looked  she  marveled  a  little  at  the  droll- 
ness  of  the  nature  of  men.  Here  was  handsome 
Dennis,  than  whom  no  better  built  and  better  favored 
lad  trod  the  grass  of  Kerry,  wearing  a  very  sulky 
frown  on  his  fine  face  because  he  had  found  Grania 
talking  with  a  pompous  and  commonplace  foreigner 
that  sought  to  carry  with  him  into  the  freedom  of 
the  country  the  heavy  air  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
So,  while  she  merrily  repudiated  any  suggestion  of 
of  philandering  as  concerned  her  conversation  with 
Mr.  Rubie,  she  could  not  help  thinking  that  Dennis 
was  rather  silly  to  make  the  suggestion. 
80 


JOURNEYS    START 

Dennis's  only  reply  was  a  grunt. 

"Don't  look  so  sour,"  Grania  expostulated,  with 
a  smile  that  should  have  dissipated  the  ill  temper 
of  the  youth  as  the  sun  a  while  back  had  dissipated 
the  enfolding  mist.  "It  is  foolish  you  are  to  be- 
have so,  spoiling  the  fair  day  that  way."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  as  Dennis  still  said 
nothing,  she  went  on  again.  "Isn't  it  a  beautiful 
day  ?  Who  would  ever  believe  that  it  was  winter 
with  the  grass  so  green  and  the  sea  so  blue  and  the 
sun  so  bright.  Oh,  Dennis,  this  is  one  of  those 
days  when  I  always  have  a  feeling  in  my  bones  as 
if  something  wonderful  were  going  to  happen." 

She  clasped  her  hands  as  she  spoke  in  the  ardor 
of  her  enjoyment  of  the  beauty  about  her.  The 
young  man  looked  curiously  at  her,  and  the  curiosity 
happily  banished  the  fretfulness  from  his  face. 
Evidently  there  was  something  in  the  words  she  had 
uttered,  those  words  in  which  she  breathed  her 
expectation  of  something  wonderful  about  to  hap- 
pen, which  touched  some  responsive  chord  in  his 
mind.  All  his  ill  humor  had  disappeared  now  as  he 
spoke.  "What  makes  you  say  that?"  he  asked, 
with  an  eagerness  that  surprised  Grania. 

She  laughed  into  his  handsome,  confident  face, 
a  roguish  spirit  danced  in  her  eyes  and  dimpled  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  She  beckoned  to  Dennis  to 
draw  nearer,  with  the  air  of  one  that  has  a  great 
secret  to  impart.  "  Sure,  I  saw  a  fairy  this  morn- 
ing," Grania  said,  impressively. 
81 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Dennis  gaped  at  her,  suddenly  startled  from  the 
sense  of  his  own  importance  by  the  oddity  of  her 
statement.  "A  fairy!"  he  ejaculated.  The  occa- 
sion, his  purpose,  his  determination,  all  these  were  so 
grave  that  though  he  knew  Grania  well,  and  her 
fairy-talk,  it  surprised  him  at  the  moment  almost 
as  much  as  it  had  surprised  the  Englishman  a  while 
back. 

Grania  nodded.  "A  leprechaun,  no  less.  I 
was  walking  along  a  bit  of  a  valley  that  shone  as 
bright  as  spring,  and  there  he  was,  a  little  wee  shee 
of  a  fellow,  sitting  on  a  stone,  with  his  little  green 
coat  on  his  body,  and  his  little  red  cap  on  his  head, 
and  a  little  shoe  between  his  knees,  and  a  little  ham- 
mer in  his  hand,  and  there  he  was  cobbling  away 
for  the  dear  life  of  him." 

Dennis  grinned.  "  It's  funning  you  are,"  he  said. 
"Is  it  some  dream  you  are  telling  me  ?" 

Grania  went  on  without  resenting  his  skepti- 
cism. "Maybe  I  was  dreaming,"  she  answered, 
"or  maybe  I  was  waking.  It  is  hard  enough  some- 
times to  tell  which  are  the  true  things — the  things 
we  dream  about  or  the  things  we  know  waking. 
Anyhow,  whether  I  saw  with  my  eyes  open  or  saw 
with  my  eyes  shut,  I  saw  my  little  fairy-man,  and 
my  little  fairy-man  never  saw  me.  You  know  it's 
the  best  of  luck  to  come  on  a  leprechaun  unawares. 
So  I  popped  out  my  hand  and  caught  him  between 
finger  and  thumb  and  held  him  fast.  He  struggled 
and  tussled,  but  it  was  all  no  good,  for  I  would  not 
82 


JOURNEYS    START 

let  him  go.  When  he  saw  that  there  was  no  escape 
the  little  rogue  took  off  his  cap  with  a  flourish  and 
said,  as  clear  as  a  whistle,  'Grania,  my  girl,  if  you 
will  give  me  my  liberty  it  is  myself  will  give  you 
the  good  luck.'  So  of  course  I  set  him  free,  and 
now  I  am  waiting  for  him  to  keep  his  word  to 
me." 

The  girl  laughed  gaily  as  she  finished  her  tale, 
but  Dennis  seemed  inclined  to  resent  the  light- 
hearted  turn  the  conversation  had  taken.  "I  don't 
believe  in  dreams.  Give  me  the  real  world  to  deal 
with  and  the  real  people  in  it." 

Grania  looked  shocked.  "And  you  the  poet!" 
she  said,  reproachfully. 

So  might  Diana  have  gazed  reprovingly  upon 
Orion  when  she  found  him  unworthy  of  her  esteem. 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  impa- 
tiently. "Poets  don't  want  to  see  fairies,"  he  as- 
serted, defiantly.  "They  want  to  make  other 
people  see  them." 

Grania  nodded.  "It's  yourself  can  do  that 
same,"  she  said,  "with  the  words  of  your  lips  and  the 
strings  of  your  fiddle.  Dennis  of  the  Sweet  Mouth. 
That's  your  name  all  over  the  kingdom  of  Kerry." 

Dennis  looked  at  her  thoughtfully,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  that  has  come  to  an  earnest  resolution  and 
yet  finds  it  hard  to  put  into  effect.  "I  hope,"  he 
said  at  length,  "it  will  stand  to  me  otherwhere  than 
in  Kerry." 

Grania  stared  at  him  amazed.  Something  in  the 
83 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

sound  of  his  voice  troubled  her  suddenly,  though 
the  words  he  uttered  were  scarcely  troubling. 

Dennis  read  her  wonder,  and  spoke  hurriedly. 

"I'm  going  away,  Grania;  that's  what  I've  come 
to  tell  you.  I'm  going  away." 

Grania  gave  a  little  cry  of  astonishment.  "Go- 
ing away!"  she  repeated,  and  Dennis  echoed  her. 

"Going  away!" 

The  girl  looked  anxiously  at  him.  "  Is  it  to  Dub- 
lin ?"  she  asked. 

Dennis  shook  his  head.  "Dublin  be  damned," 
he  said,  fiercely.  "I've  eaten  and  drunk  all  that 
Dublin  can  give  me.  I'm  too  big  for  Dublin,  I'm 
thinking."  He  paused  for  a  moment  to  give  due 
effect  to  the  announcement  he  was  about  to  make, 
and  then  spoke  with  dramatic  emphasis.  "It's 
to  London  I'm  going." 

Grania  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  of  a  sudden  as  if  her  heart  grew  red-hot,  as  a 
coulter  under  the  hammer,  and  then  ice-cold,  as  the 
coulter  when  it  is  plunged  hissing  hot  into  chill 
water.  "What  do  you  want  to  go  to  London  for,  in 
the  name  of  the  crows  ?"  she  faltered,  striving  to 
carry  her  question  off  with  an  air  of  careless  interest. 

Dennis  looked  mighty  wise,  but  in  his  heart  he  was 
a  trifle  vexed,  for  he  only  heard  the  carelessness  in 
Crania's  question.  For  all  that  he  was  so  fine  a 
musician,  his  ear  did  not  catch  the  veiled  grief. 
"Just  to  make  my  fortune,  no  less,"  he  answered; 
and  he  felt  very  big  indeed  as  he  spoke  the  simple 
84 


JOURNEYS    START 

words  that  have  been  the  Jack  O'Lanthorn  to  so 
many  and  the  Star  of  Destiny  to  so  few. 

Grania  looked  at  him  dubiously.  She  hoped 
it  was  not  her  reluctance  to  part  with  him  that 
prompted  her  to  think  with  less  certainty  of  his 
success  than  he  seemed  to  entertain.  "Are  you 
sure  you  can  do  that  same  in  the  great,  cold  city  ?" 
she  asked,  anxiously.  She  felt  toward  this  big, 
comely  boy,  aggressive  in  his  self-confidence,  as  the 
mother  duck  feels  when  its  ducklings  make  their 
first  essay  upon  the  smooth  waters  of  the  pond. 

Dennis  didn't  seem  to  entertain  any  doubt.  He 
had  thought  it  all  out;  he  had  made  his  decision; 
he  had  burned  his  bridges,  though  as  yet  Grania  was 
ignorant  of  this.  So  he  threw  back  his  handsome 
head  with  a  great  air  of  disdain  for  her  dubiety,  and 
answered  her  with  a  gallant  air  that  foretokened 
victory.  "Didn't  Tom  Moore  make  money  over 
there,  bags  of  it  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  ringing  voice ;  "  and 
didn't  he  have  all  the  grand  folks  hanging  on  his 
lips,  and  wasn't  he  hobanob  with  dukes  and  earls 
and  princes,  and  didn't  he  wind  up  with  a  snug 
place  in  the  customs,  or  some  such  like  ?"  Dennis 
paused  for  a  moment  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  words 
upon  Grania,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  as  much  im- 
pressed as  he  could  have  wished,  and  then  resumed 
the  course  of  his  argument.  "What  Tom  Moore 
could  do  I  can  do.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  denying 
that,  Grania  ?" 

Grania  shook  her  head.  Why  should  she  deny 
?  85 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

it.  After  all  there  was  something  in  what  Dennis 
said.  Mr.  Moore's  chances  could  have  seemed 
scarcely  brighter  when  he  crossed  the  Irish  Sea  to 
fame  and  fortune.  There  was  a  moment's  silence 
between  the  pair,  and  then  Dennis  spoke,  and  his 
voice  had  another  and  a  deeper  note  in  it  than  the 
clarion-call  of  self-confidence. 

"I  want  to  make  my  fortune,"  he  said,  "for  there 
is  something  I  want  more  than  any  fortune  in  the 
world,  something  that  only  a  fortune  can  help  me 
to." 

Grania  smiled  faintly,  with  a  sudden  tugging  at 
her  heart-strings.  She  felt  in  a  twink  as  she  had 
felt  on  hot  summer  days  when  everything  on  earth 
and  in  air  conspired  to  warn  her  of  the  coming  rush 
of  the  storm.  She  knew  that  what  she  had  waited 
for  was  coming,  coming  at  last.  She  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  yet  knew  that  she  must  give  some  an- 
swer to  the  challenge  in  Dennis's  speech.  "What  is 
it?"  she  asked,  "that  you  want  more  than  any 
fortune  in  the  world." 

Dennis  seemed  newly  embarrassed,  eager  to 
speak,  and  yet  uncertain  what  to  say.  His  lips 
moved  and  gave  forth  no  sound.  Desperately  he 
rallied  his  self-command. 

"It  is  the  wise  woman  you  are,  Grania,"  he  said, 
with  an  attempt  to  be  playful  that  was  pathetically 
a  failure;  "but  for  all  your  wisdom  there  is  one 
secret  that  you  have  never  guessed." 

Grania  looked  steadfastly  at  him,  sadness  in  her 
86 


JOURNEYS    START 

eyes.  "What  may  that  secret  be,  Dennis  of  the 
Sweet  Mouth  ?"  she  questioned. 

Dennis  answered  her  and  there  was  no  gaiety 
now  in  his  voice,  only  the  strength  of  a  fierce 
sweet  passion  surrendering  itself  to  confession. 

"You  have  never  guessed  that  I  love  you,  that  I 
have  loved  you  for  this  many  a  day,  that  you  are  all 
the  world  to  me,  that  I  shall  love  you  all  the  hours 
of  my  life." 

He  shook  as  he  spoke,  his  hands  trembled,  and 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  Grania  fetched  a  little 
sigh  over  the  astounding  density  of  men;  then  she 
found  a  smile  for  her  proclaimed  lover.  She  went 
up  to  him  and  rested  her  hand  for  a  minute  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"My  poor  boy,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  infinite 
tenderness  that  would  have  told  Dennis  much  if  he 
had  been  Dennis  of  the  wise  head  as  well  as  Dennis 
of  the  sweet  mouth,  "it  is  well  I  know  that  you  have 
been  in  love  with  me  this  long  year  and  more,  and 
it  is  often  and  often  that  I  have  wondered  that  you 
didn't  ease  your  heart;  but  it  is  better  late  than 
never,  and  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  this  day." 

Dennis  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  "Heaven's 
name,"  he  cried,  "why  didn't  you  give  me  an  ink- 
ling!" 

Grania  looked  at  him  with  playful  reproach. 
"There's  a  fine  way  of  talking,"  she  said.  "Would 
you  have  me  go  trapesing  after  a  man  that  hasn't  the 
kick  in  him  to  speak  for  himself?" 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Dennis  hung  his  head.  "What  was  the  good  of 
my  speaking,"  he  asked,  "me  with  my  bit  of  a 
farm,  me  with  my  fiddle  and  my  jingles,  and  you 
the  lady  born,  one  of  the  O'Haras,  no  less  ?  What 
kind  of  a  gossoon  would  I  be  to  say  to  you,  biting 
my  heart  while  I  say  it,  'Crania,  Grania,  I  love 
you.'" 

Grania  had  listened  to  him  with  a  pleased  smile 
on  her  face.  When  he  had  made  an  end  she  an- 
swered him  eagerly.  "Of  course  I'm  glad  to  be 
anO'Hara;  who  could  help  that  ?  But  any  man  has 
the  right  to  tell  any  woman  he  loves  her,  just  as  any 
woman  has  the  right  to  say  yes  or  no  to  him.  And 
it's  never  'no'  that  I  would  have  said  to  you,  Dennis 
of  the  Sweet  Mouth,  if  you  had  spoken  yesterday  or 
any  of  the  yesterdays." 

Dennis  shook  his  head  sadly.  "I  couldn't  speak, 
Grania.  What  have  I  to  give  ?  Is  it  you  would  be 
feeding  the  pig  and  washing  the  linen  and  mending 
the  clothes  and  cooking  the  dinner  ?  I  have  no  small 
opinion  of  myself,  but  I  couldn't  ask  that — of  you." 

"I  could  be  happy  enough  in  the  little  farm  with 
you,"  Grania  said,  softly;  but  the  soft  words  brought 
no  smile  to  Dennis's  face. 

"That's  all  very  pretty  and  poetic,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  are  a  poet,"  Grania  protested. 

"I'm  not  poet  enough,"   Dennis   affirmed,   "to 

make  you  a  poor  man's  wife.     So  I'll  tell  you  what 

I  have  done.    I  have  sold  the  farm  and  the  land,  and 

I've  got  the  price  of  them  in  my  pocket  to  carry  me 

88 


JOURNEYS    START 

to  London  and  keep  me  going  till  I've  made  my 
fortune." 

His  words  sounded  tragic  in  Crania's  ears. 
"Sold  the  farm  and  the  land!"  she  echoed.  "You 
have  never  done  that,  Dennis  ?" 

"That  is  just  what  I  have  done,"  he  answered; 
"  and  it  was  wise  of  me  to  do  it  anyway,  for  I  am  not 
going  to  deny  the  old  faith  any  longer,  for  all  that  my 
father  did  so,  and  it's  the  poor  holding  I'd  have  in 
that  case.  So  it  is  to  England  I'll  be  journeying  this 
very  day,  and  I'll  come  back  to  you  with  a  fortune." 

Grania  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  she  asked, 
slowly,  "  But  if  you  don't  make  a  fortune,  would  you 
be  leaving  me  to  die  an  old  maid  ?" 

"I  shall  make  the  fortune,  never  fear  it,"  Dennis 
replied,  briskly.  "Haven't  I  got  the  play  in  my 
pocket  that  any  London  manager  will  be  crazy  to 
set  on  his  stage  ?" 

"Is  it  'The  Buried  City'?"  Grania  asked. 

And  Dennis  answered,  "What  else  would  it  be 
but 'The  Buried  City'?" 

Crania's  face  glowed  as  she  spoke.  "The  city 
that  lies  down  there  under  the  waters  of  the  bay, 
the  city  where  the  princess  sits  asleep  on  her  golden 
throne,  with  the  water  washing  about  her  and  the 
fishes  butting  their  blunt  noses  against  her  face  and 
folded  hands  and  her  knees.  There  she  will  sit  till 
her  lover  leaps  from  his  ship  to  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  and  kisses  the  salt  from  her  lips  as  she  wakes 
and  says,  'Dennis,  I  love  you.'" 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

She  drew  a  little  nearer  to  him  as  she  spoke,  her 
kind  eyes  bright  with  sweet  fire,  and  her  extended 
hands  seemed  to  seek  for  his  hands.  But  Dennis 
did  not  move  toward  her;  rather  he  seemed  almost 
to  shrink  away.  It  was  the  traditional  awe  of  the 
great  lady  that  restrained  him;  also  it  was  the  fierce 
pride  in  him  that  forbade  him  to  take  favor  or  grace 
from  her  till  he  could  do  so  with  the  sense  of 
equality  that  success  alone  could  confer. 

"You  may  say  that  to  me  if  you  will,"  Dennis 
said,  clumsily,  "when  I  come  back  with  my  guineas 
from  London.  For  I  shall  come  back  with  them, 
never  fear.  I  know  that  my  play  is  good,  but  my 
play  isn't  the  only  string  to  my  bow.  I've  made  up 
a  bit  of  a  tune  these  last  days,  which  shall  be  my 
royal  march  to  victory.  Would  it  please  you  to  hear 
it?  I  call  it  'The  Soul  of  Erin.'" 

Crania's  eyes  still  shone  kindness,  though  the 
sweet  face  had  waned.  She  understood  her  lover, 
guessed,  without  admitting  it,  at  the  awe,  realized 
and  half  approved  the  pride.  She  might  have  wished 
him  to  forget  the  one  and  the  other  in  that  hour,  but 
since  he  could  not  she  was  ready  to  forgive.  She 
smiled  at  him  as  if  life  could  offer  nothing  better  just 
then  than  the  sound  of  a  bit  of  a  tune.  "  Dearly  I'd 
love  to  hear  it,"  she  said,  and  settled  herself  com- 
fortably on  the  grass. 


X 

THE  SOUL  OF   ERIN 

DENNIS  picked  up  his  fiddle  and  bow,  that  he 
had  laid  on  the  grass  beside  him  at  the  be- 
ginning of  his  talk  with  Grania.  He  handled  the 
instrument  tenderly,  as  one  that  understood  and 
loved  its  power;  he  nursed  it  lovingly  as  he  tuned 
the  strings.  Grania  watched  him  with  her  heart  in 
her  mouth.  Her  thoughts  were  all  in  such  a  whirl 
that  she  found  it  hard  to  disentangle  them,  to  follow 
one  clean  clue  of  emotion  to  a  natural  conclusion. 
She  was  sorry,  tragically  sorry,  that  Dennis  was 
going  away.  For  long  enough,  as  she  had  said,  she 
had  known  his  secret,  for  long  enough  she  had  been 
waiting  for  him  to  speak.  To  her  in  her  simplicity 
the  life  that  it  was  in  her  lover's  power  to  offer  her 
seemed  exceeding  sweet  and  pleasant.  To  a  child 
that  had  never  known  anything  but  poverty  the  life 
that  Dennis  lived,  the  life  that  the  wife  of  Dennis 
would  live,  was  kind  in  its  promises  of  peace  and 
comfort.  Grania  was  too  shrewd  not  to  realize  that 
the  comfort  and  the  peace  were  relative.  She  was 
well  aware  that  the  life  of  my  lord  and  my  lady  at  the 
Hall,  for  all  that  they  were  straitened  in  means 
91 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

for  their  station,  was  lived  according  to  a  very  differ- 
ent standard  of  peace  and  of  comfort,  and  she  had 
heard,  though  she  did  not  know  this  of  her  own 
knowledge,  that  there  were  few  gentlefolk  elsewhere 
who  were  as  superior  in  ease  to  the  Cloynes  as  the 
Cloynes  were  to  Dennis  Tirowen.  But  the  impor- 
tant thing  was  that  Grania  did  not  love  Lord  Cloyne, 
would  not  have  loved  him  had  he  been  a  free  man 
and  able  to  approach  her  in  honor,  instead  of  with 
offers  that  had  to  be  repelled  at  the  point  of  a  pitch- 
fork, and  that  she  did  love  Dennis  with  all  her  heart. 
So  her  spirit  was  a  little  wistful  to  think  that  she 
was  so  willing  to  accept  what  Dennis  had  decided 
not  to  offer.  On  the  other  hand,  she  could  not  help 
admiring  the  courage  of  the  man  in  going  out  thus 
into  the  wide,  strange  world  for  her  sake,  the  pride 
that  wished  to  approach  her  on  terms  of  something 
like  equality;  the  boy  of  the  Tirowens  coming  back 
from  beyond  seas  to  lay  the  laurels  of  victory  at  the 
feet  of  the  daughter  of  the  O'Haras;  the  high  resolve 
that  led  him  to  stake  his  all  on  the  hazard. 

And  while  she  waited  and  wondered  Dennis  was 
busy  tuning  his  fiddle,  and  now  all  was  ready  to  his 
pleasure,  and  he  lifted  the  instrument  to  his  shoulder 
and  poised  the  bow  in  the  air.  Then,  after  a  few 
cautious  sweeps  to  convince  himself  that  all  was  as 
it  should  be,  Dennis  surrendered  himself  to  the  spell 
of  his  inspiration,  and  began  to  play,  directing  his 
fingers  with  all  the  strength  of  his  soul. 

As  she  listened  she  found  the  music  good.  In  the 
92 


THE    SOUL    OF    ERIN 

beginning  delight  danced  on  its  chords,  the  delight 
of  the  Dawn  of  the  World,  the  joy  of  the  ancient 
gods,  the  happiness  of  the  heroes  in  battle,  of  the 
hunters  on  the  track.  In  a  little  the  primal  delight 
was  drowned  in  a  wave  of  sadness,  like  the  fabled 
city  beneath  the  waters  of  the  bay,  to  emerge  again 
in  mirth  and  splendor,  and  again  to  be  submerged. 
So  the  wild  strain  shifted,  but  still  at  the  end  of  all 
the  sorrow  remained  delight.  It  seemed  to  the  girl 
as  she  sat  and  heard  that  the  bow  of  the  player  as  he 
swept  over  the  strings  was  playing  upon  her  heart, 
and  that  her  single  heart  was  the  heart  of  all  her  race. 
The  magic  music  appeared  to  her  to  have  all  Ireland 
for  its  theme,  the  Ireland  which  she  knew  so  Well, 
with  its  burden  of  misery  and  its  tribute  of  tears,  and 
the  Ireland  of  which  she  dreamed  with  the  glory  of 
its  past  and  the  greater  glory  of  its  future.  All  her 
homeland  was  in  those  wailing  notes.  The  falling 
of  soft  rain,  the  lowing  of  kine,  the  carol  of  the  black- 
bird on  the  thorn-tree,  the  leap  of  the  fish  in  the 
purling  river,  the  cry  of  the  cuckoo,  the  ripple  of 
waves  about  a  boat,  the  heart-ache  of  the  west  wind 
softly  singing  its  melancholy  song,  the  mists  that 
girded  the  summits  of  mysterious  hills,  the  sharp, 
sweet  smell  of  the  burning  peat,  and  the  blue-gray 
veils  of  peat-smoke — all  these  dear  common  sights 
and  sounds  and  scents  were  in  it,  all  these  and  many 
more  that  lived  with  the  living  music  too  swiftly  even 
for  her  nimble  fancy  to  image.  All  these  things  she 
seemed  to  hear  and  see  and  smell  as  Dennis  plied 
93 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

his  bow.  Swiftly  the  themes  of  the  tune  shifted, 
alternated,  flying  like  the  shuttle  from  dusk  to  dawn 
and  from  dawn  to  night.  As  the  strings  shrilled 
to  a  fiercer  measure  her  fancy  conjured  up  the 
images  of  the  island's  youth — Finn,  the  mighty 
hunter,  with  his  Feni  at  his  heels;  Meave,  the  queen, 
with  her  mane  of  yellow  hair;  Cuchulin,  the  uncon- 
querable. Slowly  the  strain  slipped  down  into  the 
holy  peace  of  the  monasteries,  echoing  the  call  of 
the  saints  and  the  sweet  voices  of  the  scholars. 
Slowly  it  waned  from  the  ancient  days,  through  ages 
dizzy  with  the  drums  of  war,  renewing  the  battle- 
shouts  of  the  Norsemen  and  the  clash  of  Saxon 
steel  and  the  march  of  Norman  knights.  Slowly  it 
sobbed  over  the  blood-stained  centuries,  wailing  its 
way  to  the  tragedy  of  Ninety-eight;  a  snatch  of 
"Croppies,  Lie  Down"  screaming  hideously  and  in- 
sistently between  the  valiant  clamor  of  the  rebel 
songs. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  shining  with  tears  when 
Dennis  lowered  his  bow  and  looked  at  her  anx- 
iously, his  forehead  wet  with  sweat.  "Well,"  he 
said,  proudly,  "what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Is  it  not 
good  ?" 

"It  is  beautiful,"  she  answered,  "very  beautiful. 
Well  may  you  call  it  'The  Soul  of  Erin,'"  she  said. 
"As  I  listened  I  seemed  to  see  the  old  Gods  of  the 
Mist,  and  the  Golden  Kings,  and  the  Knights  of  the 
Red  Branch,  and  the  faces  of  the  faithful — 

Dennis's  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  "You 
94 


THE    SOUL    OF    ERIN 

understand,    Crania,   you    understand,"    he    said, 
slowly. 

Grania  went  on.  "And  I  seemed  to  hear  the 
tramp  of  the  enemies  and  the  noise  of  the  weary 
wars,  and  the  running  of  Boyne  River,  and  the  sad- 
ness of  the  *  Wearing  of  the  Green,'  and  the  piping 
of  pipers,  and  the  jigging  of  feet,  and  the  laughter 
of  fairies.  Well  may  you  call  it  'The  Soul  of  Erin.'" 

Dennis  glowed  at  her  praise.  "I  should  have 
the  world  at  my  feet  with  that  same,"  he  said,  and 
did  not  say  it  boastfully,  but  as  one  that  quickly 
states  some  unquestionable  fact. 

But  Grania  shook  her  head  and  looked  wistful. 
"The  world  does  not  always  welcome  beautiful 
things,"  she  said,  sadly,  "and  though  you  seem  to 
have  snared  the  very  soul  of  our  country  into  your 
tune,  I  have  it  in  my  mind  that  they  are  not 
very  fond  of  our  country  over  yonder,  and  care 
little  for  the  soul  of  her." 

"I'll  make  them  care,"  Dennis  affirmed,  sturdily. 
"There's  the  air  shall  play  me  to  my  fortune,  and 
bring  me  home  with  pockets  full  of  guineas  to  build 
a  fine  house  and  yourself  the  queen  of  it." 

Grania  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  then  smiled. 
"Please  God!"  she  said,  cheerfully.  "And  I  like 
you  finely,  Dennis,  for  going  like  a  brave  man  to 
the  battle."  She  rose  from  the  grass  and  came 
quite  close  to  him,  looking  into  his  eyes  and  speak- 
ing very  softly.  "Dennis,"  she  said,  "you  may 
give  me  a  kiss." 

95 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Dennis  made  for  a  moment  as  if  he  would  clasp 
her  in  his  embrace;  then  his  extended  arms  fell  to 
his  sides;  he  moved  back  a  step  and  looked  awk- 
ward. "I'm  fearing,"  he  said,  "the  touch  of  your 
lips  would  melt  all  the  strength  in  me  as  sugar 
melts  in  hot  punch." 

In  a  moment  Grania  was  close  to  him  again, 
with  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  her  lips  near 
to  his.  Her  cheeks  flamed  with  sweet  shame,  but 
she  was  resolved  that  he  should  not  part  from 
her  like  this.  She  spoke  imperiously.  "When  a 
girl  asks  for  a  kiss  the  boy  has  got  to  give  it,"  she 
cried.  She  halted,  as  if  frightened  at  the  word  she 
spoke;  then,  half  weeping,  half  laughing,  she  com- 
manded, "Kiss  me  this  instant,  you  villain!" 

For  a  wonderful  moment  their  lips  met  and  their 
arms  clasped,  and  the  world  was  forgotten  in  the 
marvel  of  the  first  kiss  of  fond  lovers.  Then 
swiftly  came  back  to  Dennis  the  consciousness  of 
his  great  resolve.  He  released  himself  from  Crania's 
clinging  arms,  caught  up  his  fiddle,  and  stood  apart, 
staring  in .  fierce  passion  at  the  girl's  loveliness. 
Then  like  one  that  flies  from  the  mightiest  tempta- 
tion he  sprang  down  the  slope  of  the  hill.  "Good- 
by,  Grania,"  he  cried,  "good-by!"  He  waved  her 
one  last  salute,  and  then,  turning,  ran  at  full  speed, 
without  once  looking  back,  through  the  ruins  to- 
ward the  highway  that  was  to  guide  him  to  fortune. 


XI 

THE    DOUBBLES — BARON    ET   FEMME 

MY  lord's  tale  to  Rubie  was  true.  He  had  got 
a  potential  purchaser  for  the  Round  Tower. 
That  potential  purchaser  was,  as  Mr.  Rubie  had 
been  told,  My  Lord  Cloyne's  very  good  friend,  Sir 
William  Doubble,  the  great  London  banker,  whose 
wife,  Lady  Doubble,  was  the  very  good  friend  of 
My  Lady  Cloyne,  and  thereafter  —  or  it  may  be 
earlier,  or  more  likely  both  earlier  and  thereafter 
— the  very  good  friend  of  My  Lord  Cloyne  and  of 
My  Lord  Cloyne's  brother,  the  honorable  Cur- 
tius  Loveless.  The  business  of  the  buying  of  the 
Round  Tower  had  had  its  beginning  in  some  clatter 
and  chatter  at  White's,  where  the  honorable  Curtius 
Loveless,  somewhile  invalided  home  from  the  war 
in  America  and  now  newly  convalescent,  was  taking 
his  ease.  In  the  course  of  the  chatter  and  clatter 
the  Honorable  Curtius  Loveless  had  somehow  or 
other  happened  to  mention  the  great  white-pillar 
building  on  the  Kerry  coast,  that  stood  on  ground 
belonging  to  his  brother's  estate,  and  Sir  William, 
hearing,  had  pricked  up  his  ears.  He  plied  the 
young  soldier  with  sudden  and  staggering  questions, 
97 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

which  at  once  amazed  and  amused  Curtius,  who 
was  scarcely  familiar  with  Sir  William  Doubble's 
hobby.  Yes,  the  Round  Tower  was  there,  had  been 
there  for  ever  so  long,  since  the  days  of  Crom- 
well, perhaps,  or  even  earlier — Mr.  Curtius  Love- 
less's  ideas  of  archaeology  were  of  the  crudest — it 
was  very  certainly  his  brother  Cloyne's  property, 
and  also,  no  less  certainly,  it  was  his  to  do  as  he 
pleased  with,  being  in  no  sense  in  the  nature  of  an 
heirloom.  Sir  William's  blood  boiled  with  desire 
as  he  listened  to  the  young  gentleman's  artless 
prattle.  He  had,  as  it  were,  discovered  a  new  world 
to  conquer.  As  a  consequence  of  this  chance  con- 
versation it  came  to  pass  that  Sir  William  and 
Lady  Doubble  decided  to  pay  a  visit  to  Ireland 
under  the  careful  escort  of  Curtius  Loveless,  and 
to  be  for  a  few  days  the  guests  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Cloyne  at  the  Hall.  Thus  Sir  William  would  be 
able  to  inspect  the  Round  Tower,  the  Honorable 
Curtius  Loveless  would  get  change  of  air  for  the 
betterment  of  his  health,  and  Lady  Doubble,  while 
proving  herself  a  devoted  wife  by  accompanying 
her  husband  to  the  wilds  of  Ireland,  would  also 
be  able  to  prove  the  charity  of  her  disposition 
by  looking  after  the  Honorable  Curtius  Love- 
less. 

Lady  Doubble  and  her  husband — that  was  the 

order  in  which  they  were  usually  thought  of — were 

people  of  note  in  the  social  world  of  London.     Lady 

Doubble  was  a  woman  whom  nature  had  endowed 

98 


BARON    ET    FEMME 

with  many  appetites.  She  never  felt  the  sting  of 
any  appetite  without  instantly  seeking  to  gratify  its 
demand,  and  as  she  was  wealthy,  comely,  and  still 
looked  young,  much  younger  than  her  years,  she  had 
generally  no  difficulty  in  gaining  the  desired  gratifi- 
cation. She  had  wealth  in  both  hands,  as  it  were; 
her  Pactolus  ran  in  two  ruddy  streams.  A  rich 
banker's  wife,  she  was  also  a  rich  banker's  daughter, 
and  when  she  married  Sir  William  Doubble  she 
brought  with  her  a  fortune.  She  brought  it  with  her 
and  she  kept  it  with  her. 

There  was  a  kind  of  generalship  in  the  woman 
that  scanned  the  future  warily  and  made  plans  long 
ahead.  She  entered  upon  matrimony  as  upon  a 
campaign  wherein  she  hoped  with  good  confidence 
to  march  to  victory,  but  wherein  also  she  wished  to 
insure  safety  in  case  of  a  necessary  retreat.  Her 
money  was  settled  on  herself  very  surely,  very 
tightly.  Thus,  if  ever,  by  any  unlucky  and  un- 
likely chance,  Sir  William  were  to  find  out  anything 
that  Lady  Doubble  did  not  wish  him  to  find  out,  and 
should  prove  quarrelsome  in  the  knowledge,  Lady 
Doubble  had  the  satisfaction  of  certainty  as  to  her 
own  comfort.  Not  that  she  entertained  any  serious 
fear  of  such  a  contingency.  In  the  first  place,  she 
was  very  careful,  very  methodical  in  the  adjustment 
of  her  passions,  very  shrewd  and  guileful  in  her 
wildest  flightiness.  In  the  second  place,  Sir  William 
was  not  of  an  inquisitive  disposition,  nor  was  his 
temperament  choleric,  and  he  was,  it  would  seem, 
99 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

as  little  likely  to  interfere  with  his  wife's  tastes  as 
she  to  interfere  with  his. 

In  his  very  different  way  and  with  his  very  different 
tastes  Sir  William  was  as  practical  as  Lady  Doubble. 
He  had  married  his  wife  because  she  pleased  him; 
but  had  she  been  fairer  than  she  was  he  would  not 
have  favored  her  if  she  had  not  been  a  banker's 
daughter.  It  was  the  time-honored  tradition  in  the 
house  of  Doubble  that  as  kingdoms  only  seek  to 
marry  kingdoms  so  the  bank  only  married  with 
other  banks,  and  the  time-honored  tradition  was 
invariably  respected.  Sir  William  could  have  af- 
forded,if  he  had  pleased, to  bid  for  a  duke's  daughter; 
he  could  have  afforded  also  to  play  the  Cophetua 
part  and  elevate  a  beggar-girl  to  his  ledger,  but  such 
eccentricities  were  not  to  his  mind,  though  his  mind 
was  inclined  to  other  and  less  commendable  eccen- 
tricities. It  was  a  law  of  life  for  him  that  the 
magnates  of  finance  should  wed  among  their  own 
caste,  and,  acting  in  obedience  to  this  law,  and 
questing  for  a  spouse  within  the  limits  it  laid  down, 
the  woman  for  Sir  William's  money  was  Emily 
Goring  with  her  money. 

Equally  Sir  William  with  his  money  was  the  man 
for  Emily  Goring' s  money.  She  found  the  match  as 
suitable  as  he  did,  and  what  the  pair  approved 
in  theory  proved  satisfactory  in  practice.  Emily 
Doubble  liked  fashionable  society,  and  had  com- 
manded the  attentions  of  much  of  its  best  for  a  good 
many  years.  She  was  hard  on  forty,  but  she  did  not 
100 


BARON    ET    FEMME 

look  much  more  than  thirty,  for  the  forethought 
which  characterized  in  all  her  actions  had  made  her 
take  unusual  pains  to  preserve  her  looks.  To  this 
end  she  groomed  herself  scrupulously,  washed  more 
and  exercised  more  than  most  of  the  fine  ladies  she 
knew,  and  if  she  denied  herself  no  pleasure  that 
tempted  her,  she  had  a  system  of  compensating 
recuperation  that  carried  her  safely  through  ex- 
periments and  experiences  that  would  have  wrecked 
the  constitutions  of  the  majority  of  her  fair  con- 
temporaries. For  her  the  purpose  of  life  was  to 
enjoy  herself  as  much  as  possible.  But  she  was  wise 
enough  to  realize  that  for  the  prolongation  of  enjoy- 
ment the  element  of  intermittent  temperance  was 
essential,  and  therefore  she  was  intermittently  and  re- 
luctantly, but  for  the  time  being  resolutely,  temperate. 
Sir  William  carried  himself  excellently  in  his  part 
of  the  matrimonial  enterprise.  He  was  neither 
patently  cynical  nor  covertly  suspicious.  He  took 
all  that  Emily  had  to  give  him,  but  for  the  rest  he 
minded  his  own  business,  and,  to  do  him  no  more 
than  historical  justice,  he  minded  it  uncommonly 
well.  His  Emily  knew  very  clearly  that  a  flagrant 
failure  in  decorum  would  find  him  a  severe  judge, 
but  up  to  the  threshold  of  flagrancy  he  was  like  to  be 
leniency  incarnate.  He  liked  to  be  well  fed,  well 
kept,  well  housed,  well  wived,  and  Emily  Doubble, 
thanks  to  her  upbringing,  welded  the  gifts  of  a  house- 
wife with  the  instincts  of  a  wanton;  wherefore  Sir 
William's  mansions  were  well  served.  For  the  rest 
8  101 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

the  pair  went  their  own  ways  in  complacent  tran- 
quillity. Lady  Doubble's  pleasure  lay  in  the  saloons 
of  fashion,  where  she  was  ever  welcome,  where  she 
played  deep,  ate  and  drank  valiantly,  and  made  such 
assignations  as  soothed  her  when  her  nerves  were 
overstrung.  Sir  William's  hobby,  after  business 
hours,  was  the  indulgence  of  a  somewhat  singular 
form  of  the  collector's  art,  a  form  which  had  earned 
him  not  a  little  notoriety  in  those  limited  circles  where 
collectors  and  collections  are  seriously  discussed. 

If  Sir  William  was  in  the  first  place  a  banker,  he 
was  only  in  the  third  place,  as  it  were,  the  husband 
of  his  Emily.  He  was  in  the  second  place  an  anti- 
quary, and  his  whimsical  ambition,  as  Lord  Cloyne 
had  told  Mr.  Rubie,  was  nothing  less  magnificent 
than  the  collection  of  monuments.  Other  men  might 
gather  about  them  pictures,  statues,  busts,  cameos, 
coins,  china,  medals,  bronzes,  books,  engravings, 
etchings,  manuscripts,  miniatures,  snuff-boxes,  rings 
— Sir  William's  hobby  rode  a  wilder  course.  It  was 
his  dream  to  display  on  the  acres  of  his  great  estate 
at  Muswell  Hill  specimens — genuine  specimens,  to 
be  sure,  and  no  paltry  copies,  however  costly  to  con- 
struct— of  the  religious  or  semi-religious  edifices 
with  which  mankind  has  milestoned  its  march 
across  a  wheeling  world  and  striven  to  eternize  the 
memory  of  its  varying  faiths. 

Sir  William's  vast  wealth  favored  his  pursuit  and 
populated  his  park  with  oddities.  Thanks  to  his 
influence  with  the  Ottoman  merchants,  he  had  been 
102 


BARON    ET    FEMME 

permitted  by  firman  to  pilfer  a  shrine  of  Apollo 
from  Corinthian  soil.  His  friendship  with  the 
British  Resident  in  Florence  had  allowed  him  to 
denude  Italy  of  a  small  but  fairly  perfect  temple  of 
Diana.  By  the  favor  of  the  East  India  Company 
he  had  transported  a  Hindu  fane  from  Calcutta  to 
London,  and  a  mosque  from  one  of  the  Mohamme- 
dan provinces.  He  had  lately  acquired  a  Druidic 
monument  from  a  bankrupt  farmer  in  Kent,  which 
he  declared  and  believed  to  be  older  than  Kit's  Coy 
House  and  more  interesting  than  Stonehenge. 

All  these  contrasting  buildings,  at  a  cost  that 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  any  but  the  most 
opulent  of  financiers,  he  had  plucked  ruthlessly, 
but  with  scrupulous  care,  from  the  spots  to  which 
they  belonged,  from  the  environment  which  was 
essential  to  their  interest.  Skilled  workmen  dis- 
membered them,  carefully  numbered  the  fragments 
with  red  paint,  carefully  packed  them  ^when  num- 
bered, and  escorted  them  over  land  or  sea  to  the 
Muswell  Hill  open-air  museum,  where  they  were  un- 
packed and  fitted  together  under  the  delighted  eyes 
of  the  antiquarian  banker. 

No  child  fiddling  with  its  first  box  of  bricks — nay, 
to  range  in  a  bolder  simile,  no  Egyptian  Isis  gather- 
ing together  the  scattered  bones  of  her  son — was  half 
so  eager  and  exultant  as  Sir  William  piecing  to- 
gether his  transplanted  treasures.  He  glowed  as 
the  degraded  edifices  took  shape  in  their  unfamiliar, 
uncongenial  surroundings.  He  rubbed  his  hands 
103 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

over  the  incongruous  juxtaposition  of  Aztec  and 
Saracenic  architecture;  it  pleased  him  to  behold  in 
his  suburban  spaces  the  wigwam  of  a  Blackfoot 
Indian  witch-doctor  encamped  beside  a  Buddhist 
shrine,  and  a  wayside  oratory  from  Andalusia  cheek 
by  jowl  with  some  obscene  idol  from  the  Solomon 
Islands.  Such  were  the  relaxations  of  the  great 
and  good  man;  absorbed  in  these  whimsies,  his 
leisure  from  business  was  untroubled  by  speculations 
as  to  the  whereabouts  or  the  conduct  of  Lady  Emily. 
A  man  with  such  a  mania  has  not  time  nor  thought 
for  jealousy. 

To  the  Cloynes,  in  their  straits,  Lady  Doubble 
was  little  less  than  a  godsend.  She  was  well-bred 
enough  to  meet  any  one,  but  had  she  been  as  ill- 
mannered  as  a  fishwife  her  wealth  would  have 
buttered  the  dish.  The  splendid  Cloynes  when  they 
lent  their  splendor  to  London  could  give  Lady 
Doubble  what  she  desired,  the  best  of  good  com- 
pany, the  entry  to  great  houses,  a  more  than  merely 
bowing  acquaintance  with  the  excessively  great. 
Lady  Doubble  could  feed,  insidiously,  the  lean 
exchequer  of  the  Cloynes,  could  give  great  parties 
at  which  the  Cloynes  presided  and  for  which  the 
Cloynes  took  the  social  credit,  could  entertain  the 
Cloynes  and  all  the  friends  that  the  Cloynes  wished 
to  pleasure  at  vast  banquets  at  Berkeley  Square. 

It  was  small  wonder,  therefore,  that  the  Cloynes, 
in  response  to  the  somewhat  staggering  letter  which 
Curtius  wrote  to  his  brother  after  the  conversation 
104 


BARON    ET    FEMME 

in  the  club,  were  only  too  delighted  to  extend  the 
hospitality  of  Cloyne  Hall  to  the  fantastic  banker 
and  the  fantastic  banker's  gallantish  wife,  and  that 
my  Lord  Cloyne  awaited  with  some  pleasurable 
impatience  the  arrival  of  the  pair  from  Dublin,  under 
the  escort  of  brother  Curtius,  whose  expenses,  inci- 
dentally, the  banker  paid,  and  paid  willingly. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Lady  Doubble  found 
Captain  Loveless's  society  agreeable,  for  he  was 
just  the  kind  of  man  to  attract  her.  Captain  the 
Honorable  Curtius  Loveless  was  a  fine  example  of 
a  type  that  will  always  persist  and  flourish  so  long 
as  man  retains  his  resemblance  to  the  primordial 
ape.  When  humanity's  ancestors  swung  pre- 
hensile from  tree-boughs  and  chattered  in  the 
branches  there  was  such  a  one  as  Curtius  Loveless 
among  the  simians;  so  long  as  mankind  still  abides 
by  the  canon  of  Pheidias  and  carries  such  a  body 
as  is  worn  by,  say,  Theseus,  so  long  will  a  Curtius 
Loveless  continue  to  adorn  the  tale.  He  had  the 
right  male  merits  of  strength,  of  courage;  and 
there,  from  the  point  of  view  of  any  student  of  hu- 
manity, his  catalogue  of  virtues  came  abruptly  to 
a  close.  The  rest  of  him  was  no  less  frankly 
animal  than  that  imagined  ape,  his  infinitely  remote 
ancestor.  He  had  no  principles,  but  he  was  not 
unprincipled  upon  principle,  like  many  of  the  rakes 
of  the  age;  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  was 
anything  he  ought  to  do  if  he  did  not  want  to  do 
it,  or  anything  he  ought  not  to  do  if  he  did  want 
105 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  do  it.  He  just  went  his  way,  too  entirely  un- 
imaginative and  unemotional  to  conceive  that  there 
was  or  could  be  any  other  way  of  living  than  his 
own  way  of  life  for  those  that  were  lucky  enough 
to  be  able  to  live  it.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  there 
were  beggars  in  the  world,  and  people  who  made 
their  living  by  their  hands  or  their  wits,  but  he 
knew,  also,  that  they  did  not  count.  The  world, 
the  real  world,  was  for  him  and  his  kind,  but 
especially  for  him.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
for  the  eloquence  of  a  Bossuet,  nay,  more,  of  a 
Baptist,  to  have  persuaded  Curtius  Loveless  that 
a  world  was  conceivable  which  was  not  mainly  con- 
cerned with  eating  and  drinking,  with  horse-racing 
and  card-playing,  with  the  love  of  woman  in  its 
loosest  and  most  liberal  sense,  with  the  wearing  of 
fine  clothes  and  the  membership  of  select  clubs, 
where  entry  was  as  difficult  as  through  the  eye  of 
a  needle  and  play  was  as  high  as  the  Pyramids,  a 
world  where  honor  meant  the  unquestioned  meeting 
of  one  kind  of  debt  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others, 
and  the  unquestioned  readiness  to  offer  or  to  face 
the  muzzle  of  a  pistol  as  the  solution  of  any  vexed 
question  of  social  ethics.  The  Lovelesses  were  ex- 
tremely popular  because  they  knew  exactly  how  to 
live  the  kind  of  life  with  which  they  were  familiar. 
Mr.  Brummell  was  reported  to  have  said  that  none 
of  them  knew  how  to  dress,  but  then  Mr.  Brummell 
was  given  to  saying  that  of  a  good  many  people,  in- 
cluding, of  late,  a  very  exalted  personage  indeed. 
106 


XII 

THE   MAN   FROM   ATLANTIS 

GRANIA  could  never  clearly  recall  how  the 
hours  passed,  the  immediate  hours  that  fol- 
lowed on  the  departure  of  Dennis.  She  knew  dimly 
that  she  lay  for  a  long,  long  time  on  the  green  head- 
land overlooking  the  sea,  and  that  her  heart  was 
sorely  troubled  by  conflicting  emotions.  She  was 
shaken  with  grief  for  the  going  of  her  lover,  and 
she  was  torn  with  longing  for  his  return.  She 
wished,  like  the  Egyptian  queen,  that  she  could 
sleep  out  the  great  gap  of  time  between  the  present 
and  his  home-coming,  and  wake  to  find  him  at  her 
side  triumphant.  She  would  not  allow  herself  to 
doubt  for  a  moment  that  his  triumph  was  certain, 
that  Dennis  would  come  back  to  her  with  the 
laurels  and  gold  for  which  he  yearned,  the  laurels 
and  the  gold  which  she  applauded  him  for  seeking 
since  he  sought  them  for  her  sake.  She  would  not 
admit  to  herself  that  she  might  have  been  better 
pleased  if  he  had  chosen  to  remain.  She  had  truly 
meant  what  she  said  when  she  voiced  her  readiness 
to  be  a  farmer's  wife,  but  she  recognized  that  it 
was  a  man's  part  to  go  out  and  face  the  world  and 
107 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

fight  its  giant  and  its  dragons  and  bring  back  its 
wreaths  and  trophies  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  his  sweet- 
heart. 

Somewhere  in  the  depths  of  Crania's  conscience  a 
small  voice  seemed  to  be  trying  to  question  her  con- 
fidence. "How  if  he  does  not  succeed  ?"  the  small 
voice  whispered.  Grania  stifled  that  small  voice 
resolutely,  would  not  consent  to  listen  to  it,  would 
not  admit  for  an  instant  that  she  had  heard  a  syllable 
of  its  speech.  There  was  no  question,  there  must  be 
no  question,  there  could  be  no  question  of  Dennis's 
success.  What  might  not  genius  accomplish,  genius 
inspired  by  love,  though  the  way  of  its  victory  was 
among  strangers  in  a  strange  land.  She  lay  long  on 
the  headland  staring  down  into  the  waters  below 
and  wondering  if  her  lover  would  indeed  draw  the 
Buried  City  from  those  shining  waves  and  show 
it  again  to  the  eyes  of  man.  She  dreamed  waking 
dreams  there  and  she  dreamed  sleeping  dreams,  for 
after  a  while  her  own  weariness  and  the  stillness  all 
around  her  lulled  the  girl  into  a  torpor  which  soothed 
her  vexed  nerves,  and  presently  drifted  into  slumber. 
Regret  for  the  going  of  Dennis,  admiration  for  the 
courage  that  prompted  his  departure,  wonder  as  to 
what  would  happen  to  him  in  that  far-off,  implacable 
city,  moved  for  a  little  while  confusedly  through  her 
mind  and  then  ceased  to  trouble  her  as  sleep  deep- 
ened and  presently  shifted  into  the  embroglio  of 
dreams. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  awake  and  lying 
108 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

where  she  lay — a  common  experience  of  the  dream 
state — but  it  was  no  longer  sunlight,  but  rather 
moonlight,  though  with  a  stranger  radiance  than 
that  of  any  evening  she  had  ever  known.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  she  lay  thus  and  stared  at  the  familiar 
place  so  unfamiliarly  illuminated  that  all  those 
fanciful  creatures  of  whom  she  had  discoursed 
a  while  ago  to  the  Englishman  were  flitting  hither 
and  thither,  shadowless  in  the  shining  air.  The 
pooka  galloped  noiselessly  by,  his  wild  mane  stream- 
ing behind  him,  his  eyes  glowing  like  bright  coals. 
Leprechaun  after  leprechaun  came  noiselessly  across 
the  grass,  each  bearing  a  bag  upon  his  shoulders,  the 
contents  of  which  he  disgorged  at  the  girl's  feet,  and 
those  bags  were  each  full  of  splendid  treasures, 
great  gold  pieces  and  ropes  of  glorious  jewels,  and 
vessels  of  gold  and  vessels  of  silver,  and  as  the  fairy 
creatures  continued  to  empty  their  sacks  the  magnifi- 
cent pile  seemed  to  rise  higher  and  higher  before  the 
girl — a  mountain  of  marvels.  Far  below  her,  where 
the  waters  were  rippling  upon  the  sands,  she  could 
hear  the  bells  of  the  buried  city  faintly  chiming,  and 
through  the  chime  came  the  sound  of  the  mermaids 
singing,  and  though  she  could  not  distinguish  the 
words  of  the  song,  she  seemed  to  derive  from  the 
sound  of  it  refreshment  and  encouragement.  Above 
her  in  the  purple  clouds  that  drifted  across  the  moon- 
lit sky  she  could  trace  the  majestic  shapes  of  the 
ancient  gods.  Around  her  the  voices  of  the  heroes 
thundered  their  war-cries  down  the  wind.  The 
109 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

mountain  of  marvels  was  attaining  gigantic  propor- 
tions, when  suddenly  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  a  great 
peal  of  thunder  shattered  the  whole  world,  banish- 
ing gods,  heroes,  and  fairies,  overturning  the  hill  of 
treasure  and  burying  her  under  its  gorgeous  ruins. 

With  a  start  and  a  shiver  Grania  awoke  and  sat 
up.  She  could  still  hear  the  sound  of  the  thunder 
that  had  demolished  her  vision,  only  it  was  not 
thunder  at  all,  but  merely  the  shrill  voice  of  a  child 
that  was  lustily  calling  to  her  by  name.  The  caller, 
who  was  running  vigorously  up  the  hillside,  was  no 
other  than  the  little  girl  that  had  helped  to  plague 
the  Parliament-man  with  her  impertinent  impor- 
tunities. Her  sturdy  bare  legs  seemed  to  twinkle 
as  she  ran,  spurning  the  turf  and  shouting  as  she 
sped.  When  she  got  to  where  Grania  was  sitting 
Biddy  was  not  a  little  blown,  but  she  could  still 
gather  sufficient  breath  to  tell  her  message. 

"Miss  Grania,  darling,"  she  cried,  "there  is  a 
strange  man  in  the  village."  Grania,  with  the  im- 
pression of  her  amazing  dream  still  warm  upon  her 
and  her  brain  teeming  with  images  of  deities  and 
elves,  was  not  greatly  impressed  by  a  statement  that 
seemed  so  impressive  to  the  child. 

"That  is  no  wonder,  Biddy,"  she  said,  as  she 
scrambled  to  her  feet  and  shook  herself  free  from  the 
dregs  of  sleep.  "I  hear  that  my  Lord  Cloyne  has 
many  guests  at  the  Hall  at  this  time." 

Biddy  shook  her  head  vigorously,  and  her  red 
curls  bobbed  about  her  ruddy,  sunburnt  face  like 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

little  leaping  flames.  "It  is  not  my  Lord  Cloyne 
this  one  is  seeking,"  she  answered,  emphatically, 
"but  just  your  own  self."  She  spoke  decisively; 
then,  after  a  pause,  while  an  anxious  expression 
ruled  her  usually  mirthful  countenance,  she  added 
hurriedly,  "Oh,  Miss  Grania,  I  hope  there  is 
nothing  wrong." 

Grania  laughed  heartily  at  the  child's  obvious 
concern.  "Why,  what  should  be  wrong,  Biddy?" 
she  asked.  The  girl  looked  at  once  troubled  and 
wise.  "I  do  not  know  at  all,"  she  answered,  "but 
it  seems  a  queer  thing  surely  for  a  man  from  Heaven 
knows  where  to  be  asking  after  you." 

It  did  seem  not  a  little  queer  to  Grania  that  any 
one  should  be  asking  after  her — after  her,  that  knew 
no  one  in  the  whole  wide  world  outside  the  king- 
dom of  Kerry.  She  was  still  a  little  dazed  and 
mazed  by  her  dream,  and  her  sleep,  and  her  parting 
from  Dennis.  She  questioned  Biddy  as  to  the 
stranger's  appearance. 

"Sure,  but  it  is  a  hard  face  he  has,"  the  child 
answered,  "and  he  carries  a  small  bag  in  his  hand, 
and  I  had  a  thought  in  my  mind  that  maybe  he 
was  a  process-server." 

"If  he  were  that,"  said  Grania,  calmly  un- 
troubled by  the  terror  in  Biddy's  voice,  "his  busi- 
ness would  be  more  likely  with  My  Lord  Cloyne 
than  with  me.  Did  he  look  like  an  Englishman  ?" 

The  child  shook  her  head  again.  "Not  so  bad 
as  that,"  she  answered,  and  then,  pointing  down 
in 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

the  hill,  she  added:  "See  for  yourself,  for  here  he 
comes  with  that  old  fool  Larry  to  guide  him,  bad 
cess  to  him!  Shall  we  run  away,  Miss  Grania  ?" 

Grania  laughed  at  the  girl's  imaginary  terrors  as 
she  shook  her  head.  "No,  Biddy,"  she  answered; 
"if  the  gentleman  wants  to  see  me  I'll  not  be  deny- 
ing him." 

Biddy  sighed  profoundly.  "I  hope  no  harm 
will  come  of  it,"  she  murmured. 

Then  the  two  waited  in  silence  until  Larry  and 
the  stranger  climbed  to  where  they  stood.  The 
stranger  dismissed  Larry  with  the  gift  of  a  small 
coin,  and,  advancing,  asked  if  he  had  the  honor  to 
address  Miss  O'Hara.  After  Crania's  assurance 
that  she  was  no  less  than  herself,  the  stranger  politely 
expressed  a  wish  for  some  private  conversation. 
Thereupon  Grania  dismissed  Biddy  in  spite  of  her 
well-nigh  tearful  petition  to  be  allowed  to  remain, 
"for  fear  he  means  harm,"  and  Grania  and  the 
stranger  were  left  alone. 

Grania  looked  her  seeker  over,  and  found  nothing 
in  the  stranger  to  justify  Biddy's  trepidations.  He 
was  a  well-built,  grave,  hard-featured,  middle-aged 
man  with  a  smooth-shaven  face  which  seemed  to 
have  been  carved  out  of  some  dark  wood  rather 
than  molded  out  of  human  flesh.  The  expression 
of  the  features  was  strewn  with  the  sternness  of  one 
that  has  combatted  the  world  and  won  his  way 
out  after  no  lazy  battle,  but  it  was  not  forbidding, 
and  the  look  of  the  dark  eyes  was  very  shrewd 
112 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

and  steady.  All  his  actions  were  slow,  precise,  and 
sure. 

He  opened  his  little  bag,  took  out  a  card  from 
it,  and  handed  it  to  the  girl.  "That  is  my  name," 
he  said. 

The  girl  took  the  card  and  looked  at  it.  It 
bore  the  words  "Hiram  Pointdexter,  Attorney-at- 
Law,  Wall  Street,  New  York  City."  She  gave  him 
back  the  card.  "You  are  Mr.  Pointdexter?"  she 
asked. 

The  man  nodded.  "  I  have  crossed  the  Atlantic," 
he  said,  "on  your  account.  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  obtain  permission  to  accompany  the  Com- 
missioners from  the  United  States  sent  over  to 
negotiate  at  Ghent  the  terms  of  peace  with  Great 
Britain.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  favor  me  with 
your  attention." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to  my  cabin?"  Grania 
questioned,  "or  shall  we  sit  here  and  talk  in  the 
open  air.  I  should  like  that  best  if  you  are  will- 
ing, for  I  am  never  within  four  walls  if  I  can  help 
it." 

"You  are  in  the  right  of  it,  Miss  O'Hara,"  the 
lawyer  said.  "If  I  had  my  way  I  would  be  camp- 
ing in  the  Adirondacks  instead  of  spending  my 
days  in  a  lawyer's  office."  Indeed,  he  looked  such 
a  man  as  would  prefer,  and  had  preferred,  the  open 
to  the  pent  air  of  cities.  He  sat  down  opposite 
the  girl  on  the  smooth  grass,  and  opening  the  bag 
again,  took  out  of  it  a  packet  of  papers  neatly  tied 
"3 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

together  with  red  tape.  He  unfastened  the  tape 
with  a  brisk,  dexterous  twist,  and  laid  the  various 
papers  beside  him  on  the  turf.  Then  he  looked 
steadily  at  Grania  and  questioned  her.  "Miss 
O'Hara,"  he  asked,  "what  do  you  know  of  your 
uncle  Phelim  O'Hara,  of  New  York  City,  and  of 
Poughkeepsie,  in  the  same  State?" 

Grania  shook  her  head.  This  uncle  of  hers  was 
a  dim  tradition  in  her  little  book  of  family  history, 
a  man,  a  mystery,  of  whom  her  nurse  sometimes  at 
rare  intervals  spoke  darkly.  "Little  or  nothing," 
she  said.  "He  disappeared  when  I  was  a  baby 
after  the  trouble  of  Ninety-eight.  No  one  knows 
what  became  of  him." 

As  he  listened  to  Crania's  words  Mr.  Pointdexter's 
impassive  countenance  became,  if  possible,  a  shade 
more  impassive  than  before.  "I  know,"  he  said, 
gravely.  "Let  me  tell  you  the  whole  story."  He 
coughed,  shuffled  his  little  array  of  papers  anew, 
and  then  began  in  the  solemn  voice  of  the  story- 
teller. "In  the  year  1797,  the  year  immediately 
preceding  your  unfortunate  revolution,  which,  un- 
happily, was  not  so  successful  as  ours,  your  father, 
Patrick  O'Hara,  and  his  elder  brother,  Phelim, 
were  as  good  friends  as  brothers  can  hope  to  be. 
They  shared  the  same  tastes,  pursued  the  same 
sports,  seemed  admirable  companions.  Then  they 
both  fell  in  love  with  the  same  woman,  and  im- 
mediately the  union  of  their  lives  was  ruined,  and 
from  being  the  best  of  friends  the  pair  became 
114 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

bitter  enemies.  Your  uncle,  I  regret  to  say,  after 
a  fierce  altercation  in  a  public  place,  tried  to  kill 
your  father,  and  was  only  restrained  by  the  inter- 
ference of  officious  bystanders,  who  parted  the  un- 
natural combatants.  The  young  lady  whose  good 
graces  were  thus  competed  for,  naturally  annoyed 
by  the  incident,  promptly  married  your  father  and 
became  in  due  time  your  mother." 

Grania  gave  a  little  sigh  for  the  mother  she  could 
not  remember,  the  mother  who  had  died  when  she 
was  but  three  years  old.  Mr.  Pointdexter  made  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head  as  if  in  respect  to  her 
thoughts  and  then  went  on. 

"Your  uncle  was  preparing  to  leave  Ireland  when 
the  rebellion  of  Ninety-eight  broke  out.  Both  he 
and  your  father  took  part  in  it.  Your  father  was 
killed  fighting  in  Wexford — " 

Grania  interrupted  him  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  ringing  voice.  "God  bless  him!"  she  said, 
eagerly. 

Again  Mr.  Pointdexter  bowed  his  head  as  if  in 
agreement,  then  he  continued,  in  the  same  steady, 
measured,  monotonous  tones.  "Your  uncle,  with 
a  price  upon  his  head,  was  smuggled  out  of  Ireland 
by  the  late  Lord  Cloyne,  father  of  the  present  earl, 
who  had  a  great  affection  for  him  in  spite  of  the 
difference  in  their  political  and  religious  opinions. 
He  made  his  way  to  New  York,  found  a  stimulus 
for  his  ambition  in  the  bracing  air  of  the  young 
Republic,  and  partly  by  ability,  partly  by  luck,  he 
"5 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

amassed  in  a  very  few  years  what  may  fairly  be 
called  without  exaggeration  a  colossal  fortune." 

Grania  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  "I'm  think- 
ing/' she  said,  "that  must  be  a  queer  feeling  for 
an  O'Hara." 

Mr.  Pointdexter  consented  to  soften  the  rugged - 
ness  of  his  visage  with  an  answering  smile.  "It 
was,"  he  said,  dryly,  "but  all  that  is  over  and  done 
with.  Phelim  O'Hara  is  no  more.  Before  he 
struck  his  final  balance  he  seems  to  have  experienced 
some  feeling  akin  to  remorse.  He  had  always 
practised  his  religion,  though  he  had  never  followed 
it,  but  in  his  final  illness  he  seems  to  have  repented 
of  his  conduct  to  his  brother  and  to  the  woman  that 
became  his  brother's  wife,  and  with  my  legal  as- 
sistance he  sought  to  make  amends." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  he  expected  the  girl 
to  say  something,  but  Grania  was  at  a  loss  what  to 
say.  "Poor  Uncle  Phelim!"  she  murmured.  "It 
is  hard  to  be  after  trying  to  cry  for  an  uncle  one 
never  saw  and  almost  never  heard  of." 

Mr.  Pointdexter  smiled  again,  but  this  time  it  was 
a  somewhat  sour  smile.  "My  dear  young  lady," 
he  said,  dryly,  "your  Uncle  Phelim  was  not  a  man 
who  wanted  to  be  cried  over,  living  or  dead.  Let 
us  say  no  more  about  him  than  is  necessary,  no 
more  than  it  is  essential  for  me  to  say.  In  a  word, 
he  has  made  you  the  heir  to  his  entire  fortune." 

Mr.  Pointdexter  paused  and  looked  steadily  at 
the  girl,  who  looked  back  at  him  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
116 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

pression  on  her  face.  The  words  he  had  uttered 
conveyed  little  meaning  to  her  mind. 

Mr.  Pointdexter  continued.  "You  seem  to  take 
the  news  of  your  sudden  affluence  very  composedly." 

Grania  felt  and  looked  bewildered.  She  seemed 
to  realize  dimly  and  laboriously  that  the  death  of  her 
uncle  meant  some  solid  gain  to  her.  "Am  I  really 
comfortably  off?"  she  asked. 

"Comfortably  is  not  the  word,"  Mr.  Pointdexter 
commented,  with  a  faint  hint  of  irony  in  his  voice. 

Grania  clasped  her  hands  and  gasped.  For  the 
moment  she  could  not  speak.  She  could  scarcely 
think.  Almost  she  could  have  persuaded  herself 
that  the  whole  thing  was  a  dream,  a  vision  as  un- 
substantial and  illusive  as  that  of  the  fairies.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them  again.  She  ex- 
pected to  find  herself  alone  on  the  hillside.  But  she 
was  not  alone.  Mr.  Pointdexter  was  sitting  be- 
side her  with  his  face  that  seemed  carved  out  of 
some  dark  wood  turned  toward  her,  and  in  his  hand 
he  held  a  number  of  pieces  of  folded  paper  disposed 
like  the  cards  in  some  important  game.  It  really 
was  true  that  the  lawyer  was  sitting  there,  it  really 
might  be  true,  this  marvelous  tale  he  was  telling. 
The  tidings  were  so  astonishing,  for  all  that  they 
were  told  so  methodically  and  formally  by  the  pre- 
cise lawyer  from  over  seas,  that  they  had  almost 
a  stunning  effect  upon  the  girl's  mind.  Only  half 
an  hour  ago  she  had  been  what  she  had  been  all 
her  life,  a  child  of  extreme  poverty,  a  poverty  that 

9  117 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

was  little  less  stern  than  the  poverty  of  the  humblest 
beggar  on  my  Lord  Cloyne's  estate,  and  in  this  pov- 
erty she  had  expected  to  pass  the  remainder  of  her 
days,  unless,  indeed,  Dennis  succeeded  in  making 
good  his  brave  words  and  came  back  from  London 
with  his  pockets  stuffed  with  guineas.  All  in  a 
flutter  of  wonder,  Grania  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  the  lawyer.  Her  mind  was  busy  with  unfa- 
miliar speculation.  "Have  I,"  she  questioned, 
"oh,  have  I  as  much  as  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year  ?" 

"More  like  two  hundred  thousand  a  year,"  Mr. 
Pointdexter  answered,  blandly. 

Grania  stared  at  him  as  one  might  stare  at  some 
amazing  apparition.  "Sure,  you  are  joking,"  she 
said,  weakly. 

Mr.  Pointdexter  shook  his  head.  "My  dear 
young  lady,"  he  said,  seriously,  "  I  have  not  crossed 
the  Atlantic — although,  I  admit,  handsomely  recom- 
pensed for  my  pains — in  order  to  crack  jokes  on  an 
Irish  hillside.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it  that 
you  are  an  amazingly  wealthy  young  woman,  prob- 
ably the  richest  young  woman  now  living  in  the 
United  Kingdom." 

To  hear  such  astounding  words  issuing  from  the 
lips  of  so  grave  a  countenance  was  enough  to  upset 
the  balance  of  the  most  well-regulated  nature. 
Grania,  who  was  a  very  irresponsible  child  of  nature, 
did  not  receive  them  according  to  any  conventional 
canon  of  the  reception  of  good  news.  Her  fancy 
118 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

leaped  instantly  to  the  incident  of  the  dream  that  she 
had  told  to  Dennis,  and  while  its  vivid  imagery  re- 
kindled in  her,  she  clasped  her  hands  together 
enthusiastically. 

"Bless  the  little  fellow's  green  coat  and  red  cap!" 
she  cried.  "I  knew  it  meant  luck."  Something  like 
astonishment  for  a  moment  asserted  itself  on  Mr. 
Pointdexter' s  iron  countenance.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don," he  questioned,  and  the  solemnity  with  which 
he  spoke  recalled  Grania  to  herself. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  just  think- 
ing of  a  dream  I  had."  She  kept  silent  for  an  in- 
stant, then  she  asked:  "And  is  this  money  all  my 
own,  my  very  own,  to  do  exactly  as  I  please  with  ?" 

"The  money  has  been  left  to  you  absolutely," 
Mr.  Pointdexter  replied,  "without  any  condition 
except  this,  that  if  you  marry  you  must  marry  an 
Irishman." 

"And  who  else  would  I  be  wanting  to  marry?" 
Grania  answered.  She  paused  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  with  apparent  irrelevance.  "His  name  is 
Dennis  Tirowen." 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Pointdexter,  raising  his  eye- 
brows; "and  who  is  Dennis  Tirowen  ?" 

Grania  explained,  flushed  and  enthusiastic.  "He 
is  the  best  fiddler  in  Kerry,  and  the  greatest  poet  in 
all  the  world,  and  he  has  gone  off  to  London  to  make 
his  fortune,  that  he  may  come  back  and  marry  me. 
But  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  make  his  fortune  now, 
so  let's  go  after  him  and  bring  him  back." 
119 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Pointdexter  raised  a  delaying  hand.  "  Gently, 
young  lady,  gently,"  he  said.  "From  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  I  should  say  that  your  young 
friend  is  likely  to  return  when  he  hears  of  your  good 
luck." 

Grania  was  about  to  protest  vigorously  at  this 
assumption  on  the  part  of  the  lawyer,  but  Mr. 
Pointdexter  lifted  up  his  hand  as  if  to  command 
silence,  and,  somewhat  to  her  surprise,  Grania  obeyed 
him.  Indeed,  she  found  him  a  person  that  was 
used  to  obedience,  this  bringer  of  strange  news. 
Mr.  Pointdexter  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds;  then 
he  spoke  again. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  gravely,  "I  take 
it  for  granted  that  I  have  surprised  you  not  a  little 
by  the  news  that  I  have  made  known  to  you  to-day. 
But  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that 
you  also  have  surprised  me  a  good  deal." 

Grania  stared  at  him  with  raised  eyebrows. 
"Indeed,"  she  said,  "and  how  so  ?" 

Mr.  Pointdexter  explained.  "From  what  I  had 
heard,  I  understood  that  you  were  reduced  to  great 
poverty,  and  from  what  I  see" — and  as  he  spoke  he 
glanced  with  a  look  of  commiseration  at  the  girl's 
clothes — "I  learn  that  what  I  heard  was  true. 
But,  and  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  appear  inquisitive, 
while  you  dress  like  a  peasant  and  live  like  a  peasant, 
you  do  not  speak  like  a  peasant  and  you  do  not 
carry  yourself  like  a  peasant." 

Grania  laughed  pleasantly.  "That  is  easily 
120 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

explained,"  she  answered.  "My  old  nurse,  who 
took  charge  of  me  after  the  rising,  was  a  well-edu- 
cated woman  to  start  with,  and  for  my  sake  she 
bettered  her  education,  that  I  might  benefit  by  her 
knowledge.  I  was  a  quick  child,  I  believe,  and 
picked  up  information  quickly,  and  Father  O'Keefe, 
that  was  a  man  of  great  learning,  took  an  interest  in 
me  and  taught  me  Latin  and  French.  And  the 
young  man  I  was  speaking  of,  Dennis  Tirowen,  that 
I  have  known  since  I  was  so  high,  why,  he  has  al- 
ways loved  songs  and  poetry  and  music,  and  he 
taught  me  some  of  his  arts." 

Mr.  Pointdexter  nodded,  and  a  queer  smile  played 
for  a  moment  over  his  grim  face.  "You  will  cer- 
tainly not  be  so  unfit  for  your  new  life  as  I  expected," 
he  said.  "You  must  know  that  there  is  a  proviso 
in  the  will  suggesting,  although  not  insisting,  that 
you  should  commit  yourself,  for  your  preparation 
for  the  society  to  which  your  wealth  entitles  you,  to 
the  tutelage  of  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Cloyne,  to 
whom,  in  the  case  that  you  and  they  agree,  your 
uncle  leaves  a  very  handsome  sum.  This  repre- 
sents his  gratitude  to  the  late  earl,  who  connived  at 
his  escape." 

Grania  burst  out  laughing.  "The  Earl  and 
Countess  of  Cloyne!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Lord,  what 
fun!" 

A  certain  sternness  in  Mr.  Pointdexter's  glance 
arrested  Crania's  mirth.     "May  I  ask,"  he  said, 
solemnly,  "why  you  appear  to  be  diverted." 
121 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Instantly  Grania  was  discretion  itself.  "I  was 
only  amused,"  she  said,  demurely,  "at  the  thought 
that  it  should  be  worth  the  while  of  my  lord  and  my 
lady  to  take  any  notice  of  me." 

Mr.  Pointdexter,  in  spite  of  his  natural  gravity, 
seemed  to  find  something  not  unentertaining  in  the 
situation,  for  his  eyes  twinkled  in  his  rigid  face. 

"The  possession  of  wealth,"  he  said,  philosophi- 
cally, "alters  one's  relationship  to  the  world  in 
general  very  considerably." 

Mr.  Pointdexter's  words  seemed  to  move  his 
hearer  more  than  perhaps  the  speaker  expected. 

"The  possession  of  wealth,"  Grania  repeated, 
only  as  yet  vaguely  conscious  of  her  changed  estate. 
"If  I  am  wealthy  I  can  save  the  Round  Tower." 

Mr.  Pointdexter  glanced  at  the  great  white  pillar 
rising  from  the  green  grass.  "Save  the  Round 
Tower  ?"  he  repeated.  "  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  quite 
understand.  Pray  explain." 

Whereupon  Grania  explained.  She  told  her  at- 
tentive, impassive  listener  how  she  loved  the  Round 
Tower,  how  she  had  served  it  and  tended  it  since  her 
childhood,  how  it  seemed  to  her  the  most  sacred 
of  all  the  sacred  things  in  the  sacred  soil  about  her. 
Then  she  told  him  how  it  was  blown  abroad,  in  a 
rumor  spreading  from  the  Hall  to  the  village,  and 
from  the  village  to  the  country-side,  and  generally 
believed,  that  my  Lord  Cloyne  had  promised  to 
sell  the  Round  Tower  to  some  gentleman  from 
England,  and  to  allow  the  foreigner  to  transplant 
122 


THE    MAN    FROM    ATLANTIS 

it  stone  by  stone  from  the  soil  whence  it  sprang  to 
an  alien  land.  There  were  tears  in  Crania's  eyes 
as  she  told  the  tale,  and  hope  in  her  eyes  as  she 
asked,  eagerly,  if,  now  that  she  was  rich,  she  had 
money  enough  to  buy  the  beloved  Round  Tower 
away  from  the  enemy? 

Mr.  Pointdexter  had  scarcely  finished  assuring 
her  that  with  her  command  of  money  it  would  be 
well-nigh  hopeless  for  any  one  to  compete  with  her 
in  a  struggle  for  the  possession  of  the  Round  Tower, 
when  Grania  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  little  cry  and 
pointed  down  the  hill-road.  Mr.  Pointdexter,  fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  Crania's  finger,  observed  a 
small  company  of  human  beings  leisurely  ascending 
the  slope.  These  human  beings,  Grania  told  him, 
hurriedly,  certainly  included  Lord  and  Lady  Cloyne, 
and  probably  included  the  would-be  purchaser  of 
the  Tower. 

"They  are  coming,"  she  said,  fiercely,  "to  buy 
it,  the  beautiful  Tower,  the  glory  of  the  foreland, 
my  dear,  dear  Tower.  But  they  shall  not  have  it 
now!  Come  away  before  they  see  us." 

Grania  in  her  eagerness  almost  dragged  Mr. 
Pointdexter  from  where  he  stood  to  the  base  of  the 
Tower.  Then  nimbly  ascending  the  flight  of  steps, 
she  beckoned  him  to  follow,  which  he  did  with  the 
leisurely  dignity  becoming  to  his  years  and  his  pro- 
fession. Inside  the  Tower,  secure  from  observa- 
tion, they  could  watch  the  advance  of  the  party 
from  the  Hall. 

123 


XIII 

LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

THE  party  from  the  Hall  came  leisurely  up  the 
hill.  They  had  dined  early;  they  had  dined 
well,  and  the  cool  of  the  evening  was  soothing  after 
a  liberal  indulgence  in  meats  and  wines.  My  Lord 
Cloyne  kept  a  good  table  in  spite  of  his  straitened 
means,  and  he  strove  to  be  Lucullus  with  the 
Doubbles  for  his  guests.  Lady  Doubble,  a  trifle 
flushed  and  vastly  vivacious,  strolled  side  by  side 
with  Curtius  Loveless,  whose  sallies  and  gallantries 
seemed  to  afford  her  the  highest  gratification.  Lady 
Cloyne  was  escorted  by  Mr.  Rubie,  and  seemed  to 
listen  with  attentive  ear  and  interested  mien  to  that 
worthy  gentleman's  profound  opinions  and  preg- 
nant postulations.  In  reality  she  was  not  paying 
the  least  attention  to  what  he  said,  but  was  occupy- 
ing her  mind  with  speculations  as  to  how  Marcus 
and  she  should  spend  the  banker's  money,  if — 
which,  indeed,  she  could  scarcely  bring  herself  to 
believe — the  banker  were  really  fool  enough  to  be 
willing  to  waste  good  money  on  a  foolish  and  useless 
Round  Tower. 

My  lord  walked  with  Sir  William,  and  artfully 
124 


LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

contrived  to  carry  on  a  conversation  upon  archae- 
ology and  antiquarianism  generally,  as  if  he  really 
knew  something  about  the  subjects.  What  he  did 
know,  or,  rather,  what  he  appeared  to  know,  he  had 
garnered  from  a  hurried  consultation  of  the  neces- 
sary volumes  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  which 
formed  part  of  the  late  lord's  library.  Such  as  the 
knowledge  he  had  thus  culled  might  be,  it  served 
his  lordship's  turn,  for  it  enabled  him  to  give  his 
companion  a  succession  of  little  judicious  spurs  and 
goads  which  urged  him  to  the  delivery  of  lengthy 
and  elaborate  dissertations  on  his  favorite  themes. 
These  harangues  bored  my  lord  excessively,  but  he 
considered  lovingly  the  coming  guineas,  and  carried 
a  smiling  face. 

The  little  party,  therefore,  seemed  all  in  the  best 
spirits  and  on  the  best  terms  with  each  other  when 
they  finished  their  climb  and  came  to  a  halt  on  the 
summit  of  the  hill.  With  a  wave  of  his  cane  my 
lord  indicated  the  Round  Tower.  It  was  for  all 
the  world  as  if  he  were  formally  presenting  Sir 
William  Doubble  to  the  ancient  monument  he  had 
traveled  thus  far  to  see. 

Sir  William's  countenance  glowed  with  satis- 
faction as  he  surveyed  the  Tower,  and  he  turned 
to  his  host  in  a  rapture  of  enthusiasm.  "My  lord," 
he  declared,  with  the  eagerness  which  he  always 
displayed  when  there  arose  any  opportunity  for 
adding  to  the  madness  of  Muswell  Hill,  "you  have 
not  exaggerated  the  value  of  your  treasure.  It  is  a 
125 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

splendid  specimen,  and  I  am  delighted  to  think 
that  it  is  destined  to  enrich  my  collection." 

My  lord  in  his  heart  thought  the  egregious  banker 
a  very  foolish  personage,  but  he  was  far  too  wary  to 
show  any  sign  of  contempt  for  a  folly  which  prom- 
ised to  put  some  hundreds  of  pounds  into  his  own 
pockets.  He  suggested  that  the  banker  should  in- 
spect the  Round  Tower  from  within,  and  the  banker, 
accepting  the  invitation  with  alacrity,  was  about  to 
skip  as  nimbly  as  he  could  up  the  rude  run  of  steps 
that  now  made  the  entrance  to  the  Tower  accessible. 
But  he  got  no  farther  in  his  progress  than  the  placing 
of  one  foot  upon  the  first  step  of  the  stairway,  for  at 
that  moment  Grania  suddenly  emerged  from  the 
darkness  of  the  interior  of  the  Tower,  and,  standing 
on  the  top  of  the  steps,  looked  down  upon  the 
little  company  from  the  Hall. 

Sir  William  gave  a  little  start  at  the  sudden 
appearance  of  youthful  beauty  in  a  manner  so 
unexpected.  The  faintest  shade  of  an  annoyed 
frown  darkened  for  a  moment  the  amiability  of 
my  lord's  face,  only  to  disappear  as  swiftly  as  it 
had  come.  Lady  Cloyne  and  Lady  Doubble  lifted 
their  long-handled  eye-glasses  and  stared  at  the  girl, 
the  first  with  a  disdainful  familiarity,  the  second 
with  a  frank,  if  slightly  resentful,  admiration.  Mr. 
Rubie  felt  curiously  agitated  at  seeing  Grania  again, 
and  disapproved  of  the  agitation.  As  for  Captain 
Curtius,  he  stared  as  if  he  had  never  seen  a  pretty 
girl  before.  Indeed,  he  assured  himself  that  he 
126 


LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

had  never  before  seen  one  so  beautiful,  and  he  had 
seen  many  in  his  day. 

Grania  came  quietly  down  the  steps  as  Sir 
William  hurriedly  renounced  his  attempt  to  ascend, 
and  faced  the  company  from  the  Hall  composedly. 
Behind  her,  in  the  darkness  of  the  Tower,  Mr. 
Pointdexter  lingered,  unnoticed  or  unheeded.  Gra- 
nia saluted  Lady  Cloyne,  who  returned  the  saluta- 
tion coldly,  and  then  addressed  herself  to  my  lord. 

"I  hear,"  she  said,  "that  your  lordship  has  the 
intention  of  selling  this  Tower." 

Lord  Cloyne  nodded  briskly,  and  made  a  gesture 
in  the  direction  of  Sir  William  Doubble. 

"That  is  so,"  he  agreed,  "and  this  is  the  gentle- 
man that  proposes  to  buy  it." 

"It  has  ever  been  the  rule,"  Grania  retorted,  "on 
the  Cloyne  estate  when  any  portion  of  the  land  is  to 
be  sold  to  sell  it  to  the  highest  bidder." 

Lord  Cloyne  nodded  again.  "Very  true,  Miss 
O'Hara,"  he  said,  politely,  "and  the  rule  would  be 
observed  now  if  there  were  the  slightest  likelihood 
of  any  one  being  desirous  to  compete  with  Sir 
William  Doubble  here  for  the  possession  of  the 
Round  Tower." 

He  spoke  as  if  his  words  ended  a  conversation 
that  was  at  once  needless  and  "meaningless,  but 
Crania's  next  words  staggered  him. 

"  It  is  not  so  very  unlikely,"  Grania  said,  quietly. 
"  I,  myself,  am  wishful  to  buy  theTower  if  the  Tower 
is  for  sale." 

127 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Lord  Cloyne  could  scarcely  have  been  more  sur- 
prised if  Grania  had  announced  her  intention  of 
assuming  the  title  of  Queen  of  England.  As  he  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt  of  the  girl's  sanity,  he  sus- 
pected some  kind  of  practical  joke  and  my  lord  de- 
tested practical  joking.  His  surprise  was  so  great 
that  he  showed  it,  which  was  unusual  for  him. 
Lady  Cloyne,  who  had  been  busily  explaining 
Grania  to  Lady  Doubble  in  a  half-audible  whisper, 
now  tittered.  Sir  William  looked  vexed  and  puzzled. 
Mr.  Rubie  wondered  if  the  girl  had  taken  leave  of 
her  senses,  and  Captain  Curtius  edged  nearer  to 
get  a  better  view.  He  had  only  been  dimly  con- 
scious of  Crania's  existence;  he  had  never  seen  her 
since  she  was  a  child,  for  Captain  Curtius  was  wont 
to  congratulate  himself  that  his  life  had  not  to  be 
lived  in  Ireland.  Now  he  was  inflamed  with  ad- 
miration of  the  girl's  beauty,  and  envied  his  brother 
his  opportunities,  and  wondered  what  use  he  had 
made  of  them.  In  the  mean  time  that  brother,  for 
once  at  a  loss,  was  striving  as  politely  as  possible 
to  suggest  to  Grania  that  she  should  go  away  and 
not  talk  nonsense. 

Grania  smiled.  "I  suppose  you  think  me  in- 
sane," she  said,  good-humoredly,  "but,  indeed,  I 
am  quite  rational  and  quite  in  earnest."  She 
glanced  over  her  shoulder  toward  the  doorway  of  the 
Tower,  wherein  Mr.  Pointdexter  now  was  framed. 
"This  gentleman  will  explain,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Pointdexter  slowly  descended  from  the 
128 


LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

Tower  to  the  turf.  He  saluted  the  two  ladies  with  a 
rigid  courtesy,  and  then  addressed  himself  to  Lord 
Cloyne.  Briefly  and  pithily  he  put  that  astonished 
nobleman  in  possession  of  the  facts  which  had  con- 
verted Grania  from  poverty  to  wealth.  My  lord  and 
his  companions  heard  and  were  amazed.  My  lord 
questioned  shrewdly,  but  after  a  few  minutes  felt 
that  there  was  no  room  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of  the 
lawyer's  narrative.  Mr.  Pointdexter  had  with  him 
in  his  little  bag  sufficient  documentary  evidence 
to  satisfy  the  most  skeptical.  There  was  the  copy  of 
O'Hara's  will,  there  were  unlimited  letters  of  credit 
on  Dublin  and  London  banks.  Lord  Cloyne  sur- 
rendered all  doubts.  He  certainly  was  not  unwilling 
to  be  convinced,  for  the  proviso  in  the  will  which 
appointed  him  and  his  wife  as  the  wardens  of  the 
newly  enriched  girl  frankly  delighted  him.  As  for 
Lady  Cloyne,  she  immediately  quitted  Mr.  Rubie  to 
precipitate  herself  in  a  paroxysm  of  enthusiastic 
congratulations  upon  Grania,  who  had  never  hither- 
to received  more  than  the  most  distant  civilities  of 
recognition  and  salutation  from  the  great  lady. 

Grania  was  inwardly  amused  at  this  vehement 
effusiveness  and  outwardly  pleased  at  the  extrava- 
gant display.  Had  Lady  Cloyne  suddenly  discov- 
ered a  long-lost  and  dearly  loved  relative  she  could 
not  have  made  a  greater  fuss  over  the  girl,  but  be- 
cause she  was  a  clever  woman  and  by  no  means 
wanting  in  shrewdness  she  contrived  to  leaven  her 
enthusiasm  with  a  certain  frank  worldliness  which 
129 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

made  it  seem  less  impossible.  She  admitted  with 
a  cheery  candor  that  as  Crania's  position  had  now 
entirely  changed  it  was  only  natural  and  fitting  that 
Lady  Cloyne's  attitude  and  course  of  conduct 
should  change  with  it.  She  vowed  that  she  had 
always  liked  Grania,  but  that  the  liking  could  not 
possibly  take  any  pronounced  form  as  long  as 
Grania  was  merely  a  girl  who  lived  in  a  peasant's 
cabin  and  dressed  like  a  peasant  girl.  Grania,  on 
her  side,  was  prepared  to  accept  the  lady's  overtures 
in  the  spirit  in  which  they  were  made.  She  was 
desirous  in  the  first  instance  to  follow  the  wishes 
of  the  uncle  whom  she  had  never  seen  but  whose 
belated  remembrance  of  her  had  caused  such  a 
change  in  her  fortunes.  In  the  second  place,  she 
was  well  aware  of  the  advantage  it  would  be  to  her 
to  accept  the  offered  friendship  of  the  Cloynes  and 
to  make  her  entrance  into  the  social  world  in  their 
company.  So  that  matter  was  settled  without  fur- 
ther ado. 

Nobody,  it  may  be  noted,  was  more  gratified  by 
the  arrangement  than  Captain  Curtius.  The  beauty 
of  the  girl  had  allured  him  from  the  first,  stimulating 
pursuit.  Now  other  thoughts  came,  other  hopes 
kindled,  and  it  was  with  a  great  show  of  eager- 
ness that  he  pressed  forward  to  be  presented  by 
his  sister-in-law  to  the  fair  heiress,  who  received 
him  very  graciously.  Captain  Curtius  was  very 
good-looking,  and  had  a  most  gallant  carriage. 
There  was  no  reason  why  Grania  should  not  smile 
130 


LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

upon  him.  Lady  Doubble  smiled  also  and  thought 
sourly. 

But  if  the  general  feeling  of  the  little  company  on 
the  hillside  was  one  of  satisfaction,  strong  dissat- 
isfaction asserted  itself  in  the  person  of  Sir  William 
Doubble.  He  broke  in  upon  the  conference  between 
the  Cloynes  and  Grania  and  Mr.  Pointdexter  with 
vehement  demands  that  his  lordship  should  carry 
out  the  understanding  come  to  between  them  and 
sell  him  the  Round  Tower.  Lord  Cloyne  pointed 
out  to  the  aggrieved  banker  that  the  situation  was 
wholly  changed,  that  a  new-comer  had  taken  a  hand 
in  the  game  and  altered  its  conditions  by  announc- 
ing an  intention  to  enter  the  lists  as  a  competitor 
for  the  purchase  of  the  Round  Tower.  My  lord 
pointed  out  how  unfair  it  would  be  to  him,  Cloyne, 
if  he  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  take  advantage  of 
the  sudden  opportunity  afforded  him  of  getting  a 
better  price  for  his  property. 

The  arguments  seemed  to  be  lost  upon  the  banker. 
He  insisted  on  what  he  asserted  to  be  his  rights,  and 
when  Grania  amiably  but  positively  assured  him 
that  she  was  determined  to  outbid  any  sum  he  might 
be  persuaded  by  his  passion  of  collectorship  to  offer, 
his  zeal  of  acquisition  overcame  his  decorum,  and  he 
eventually  so  far  forgot  his  urbanity  as  to  remind 
Grania  that  as  a  Catholic  she  had  no  power  to  buy 
or  hold  property  in  Ireland  as  against  a  member  of 
the  established  Church.  For  a  moment  Crania's 
face  fell,  for  she  knew  well  enough  the  extravagant 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

cruelties  of  the  penal  laws,  but  she  recovered  her 
serenity  when  Mr.  Pointdexter,  coming  forward, 
blandly  explained  that  though  the  law  might  in 
effect  act  so,  it  did  not  prevent  an  American  citizen 
from  buying  any  property  that  was  offered  for  sale 
in  Ireland,  and  that  he  as  an  American  citizen  was 
as  cheerfully  prepared  to  outbid  the  antiquary's 
offers  as  Grania  herself. 

Thus  frustrated,  there  was  nothing  for  the  anti- 
quary to  do  but  to  abandon  his  claim,  which  he  did 
with  a  very  ill  grace  indeed,  and  to  quit  the  field, 
which  he  did  very  quickly  in  the  company  of  his 
spouse,  who  went  with  him  for  the  sensible  purpose 
of  soothing  his  ruffled  feelings.  She  was  deter- 
mined that  there  should  be  no  quarrel  with  the 
Cloynes  over  a  silly  old  building,  and  she  was  quite 
willing  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  the  young  wo- 
man whose  fortunes  rivaled  those  of  Aladdin.  Mr. 
Rubie,  after  stammering  out  a  few  awkward  words 
of  congratulation  to  Grania,  followed  the  Doubbles 
in  the  company  of  Captain  Curtius,  and  the  Cloynes 
were  left  to  make  their  arrangements  with  their  new 
ward  and  her  lawyer.  While  my  Lady  Cloyne  was 
volubly  announcing  her  plans  and  proposals  to  the 
quietly  attentive  American,  my  lord,  with  the  smil- 
ing statement  that  he  left  all  such  matters  to  his  wife, 
took  advantage  of  the  situation  to  get  a  few  words 
with  Grania  apart. 

To  do  my  lord  justice  he  was  never  taken  aback 
and  was  never  known  to  seem  abashed.  Another 
132 


LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

man  might  have  found  the  changed  situation  em- 
barrassing and  might  have  met  it  with  awkward 
expressions  of  regret  or  a  sulky  affectation  of  in- 
difference. My  lord  did  not  bother  himself  so. 
Mis  face  wore  its  pleasantest  smile  as  he  addressed 
the  girl. 

"Let  me  offer  you  my  heartiest  congratulations," 
he  said,  "on  this  sudden  change  in  your  fortune. 
My  congratulations  are  honest,  and  I  hope  you  will 
believe  that  they  come  from  the  lips  of  a  friend." 

Grania  made  as  if  she  would  speak,  but  my  lord 
with  a  gracefully  lifted  hand  checked  her  attempt 
as  he  continued,  still  with  the  same  air  of  courteous 
good  humor. 

"Oh!"  he  protested,  "I  can  guess  what  you  were 
going  to  say,  that  I  have  not  shown  myself  a  friend, 
and  that  you  do  not  feel  friendly  disposed  toward 
me;  but  I  believe  that  if  you  reflect  for  even  a  few 
minutes  you  will  say  nothing  of  the  kind.  You 
know  what  we  are,  we  men  of  the  world;  we  are  all 
given  to  gallantry,  and  there  never  was  a  Loveless 
yet  who  did  not  seek  to  excel  in  the  sport.  But 
that  is  all  past  and  done  with  as  far  as  you  are 
concerned.  I  have  apologized  before,  and,  if  you 
want  me  to  apologize  again,  I  am  ready  to  do  it 
with  my  hand  on  my  heart  and  my  knee  on  the 
turf." 

He  made  a  suggestion  of  kneeling  as  he  spoke, 
though  he  did  not  kneel,  and  his  smiling  eyes 
scanned  the  girl's  face  steadily.  It  would  have  been 

10  133 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

hard  for  her,  it  would  have  been  hard  for  any  woman, 
to  resist  the  cheerful  earnestness  of  my  lord's  man- 
ner. He  was  not  in  the  least  sincere,  but  sincerity 
asserted  itself  in  every  sound  of  his  voice  and  on 
every  line  of  his  frank  and  handsome  features.  His 
carriage,  as  well  as  his  speech,  seemed  to  protest  a 
genuine  desire  for  reconciliation,  a  general  assurance 
of  amendment.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  lord  knew 
that  that  way  of  his  always  had  a  good  effect  upon 
those  who  experienced  its  influence  for  the  first 
time.  He  was  really  thinking  of  the  value  that  a 
reconciliation  with  the  girl  would  mean  to  him. 
St.  James's  Street  seemed  suddenly  very  near  at 
hand.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  only  to  extend  an  arm 
to  touch  the  door  of  Watier's.  He  could  almost  see 
the  portly  figure  of  the  Prince  Regent  and  glow 
responsive  to  his  welcoming  smile. 

Grania  was  willing  to  forgive,  and  so  Grania  for- 
gave. She  had  too  brisk  a  sense  of  humor  to  cher- 
ish the  memory  of  an  offense  to  commit  which 
came  as  natural  to  a  man  of  Lord  Cloyne's  kind  as 
to  breathe.  She  smiled  her  readiness  to  forget,  and 
my  lord  made  her  a  grateful  bow.  Then  Lady 
Cloyne  smiled  down  upon  them,  with  Mr.  Point- 
dexter  in  tow.  All  was  settled.  Grania  was  to 
come  at  once  to  the  Hall  and  become  a  member  of 
the  Cloyne  household.  The  next  steps  in  her 
career  as  a  great  lady  would  be  decided  later.  In 
quick  response  to  Crania's  expression  of  anxiety  as 
to  the  welfare  of  her  old  nurse,  Lady  Cloyne  prom- 
134 


LORD    CLOYNE    IS    SURPRISED 

ised  that  ease  and  comfort  should  henceforth  be 
assured  to  her.  The  preliminary  lines  of  the  treaty 
between  the  high  contracting  parties  thus  laid  down, 
the  company  quitted  the  hilltop  and  walked  to  the 
Hall. 


XIV 

METAMORPHOSIS 

RANIA  could  never  quite  recall  in  after  life  the 
exact  sequence  of  events  of  those  first  astound- 
ing hours  or  the  sensations  that  those  events  caused 
her.  It  was  all  so  sudden,  so  swift,  so  amazing,  so 
like  being  blended  with  the  delicate  impossibilities 
of  a  fairy  tale  being  borne  on  the  plumy  wings  of 
some  Arabian  adventure.  To-day,  as  it  were,  and 
yesterday,  and  all  the  yesterdays  that  she  could 
remember,  she  had  been  poor.  She  had  looked  for- 
ward without  fear  as  without  hope  to  a  life  of  pover- 
ty only  a  little  less  abject  in  that  she  placed  a  wo- 
man's confidence  in  Dennis's  braggadocio.  And 
lo,  to-day  again !  But  she  was  suddenly  translated, 
and  the  present  was  a  splendid  promise  and  the 
future  was  to  go  its  way  upon  a  path  that  was  all 
gold  and  roses.  At  first  she  was  like  the  sleeper 
awakened  in  the  Oriental  fantasy,  and  could  not  by 
any  means  prevail  upon  herself  to  credit  her  as- 
tounding shift  of  fortune.  Was  it  really  she  who 
now  owned  the  Round  Tower,  bought  from  my 
Lord  Cloyne  at  a  reasonable  advance  upon  Sir 
William  Doubble's  price  ?  Was  it  really  she  who 
136 


METAMORPHOSIS 

was  an  heiress  and  dwelling  at  the  great  Hall  and  on 
terms  of  equality  with  its  great  ladies  ?  It  was  only 
the  repeated  assurances  of  Mr.  Pointdexter,  the 
persistent  assiduities  of  the  Cloynes,  and  the  heavy 
amiabilities  of  Sir  William  Doubble,  now  partially 
reconciled  to  the  loss  of  the  Round  Tower  by  the 
promise  of  a  new  client  and  enormous  deposits,  it 
was  only  these  combined  evidences  and  aids  to  con- 
viction that  dissipated  her  doubts  and  allowed  her 
to  lift  up  her  heart  in  serenity  and  security. 

What  a  wonderful,  many-colored  phantasmagoria 
it  was  to  look  back  upon  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
days,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks!  First  of  all, 
there  was  her  installation  at  the  Hall,  and  her  in- 
vestment in  such  of  the  garments  of  fashion  as  could 
be  hurriedly  adapted  to  her  need  from  the  somewhat 
slender  wardrobe  of  my  Lady  Cloyne  and  the 
brimmed  capacity  of  the  traveling  trunks  of  my 
Lady  Doubble.  Her  beautiful  body  was  for  the 
first  time  clothed  as  its  slender  loveliness  deserved. 
Delicate  linen  touched  her  flesh,  the  suavity  of 
bravely  colored  silks  and  ancient  lace  framed  and 
emphasized  the  radiancy  of  her  youth  and  the  rich- 
ness of  her  beauty.  She  knew  the  joy  of  delicious 
silk  stockings,  clinging  to  the  slim  leg  as  tightly  as  a 
second  skin;  the  joy  of  cool,  clean  lavender-scented 
smocks,  the  joy  of  pretty  petticoats  and  companion- 
able stays,  the  joy  of  costly  gowns,  of  feathers  in  the 
hair,  of  jewels  on  neck  and  wrist  and  finger.  After 
the  first  shock  of  surprise  she  accepted  the  meta- 
137 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

morphosis  readily  enough,  was  supple  under  the 
touches  of  dexterous  ladies'  maids,  was  newly  de- 
lighted with  each  addition  to  her  charms.  How 
glorious  was  the  exposure  to  a  mighty  mirror,  the 
beholding  in  that  sheet  of  glass  of  the  sweet  changes 
which  veil  upon  veil  of  rich  attire  wrought  in  her 
outward  show.  Yet  she  was  very  quiet  throughout 
that  first  bewildering  ordeal,  showing  no  unnecessary 
joy,  taking  her  staggering  transmutation  with  a  seem- 
ing calm  that  surprised  Lady  Cloyne  and  amused 
Lady  Doubble,  both  of  whom  had  been  used  to  fine 
clothes  all  their  lives  and  would  scarcely  have  been 
surprised  if  the  peasant  girl,  as  they  styled  or  thought 
her,  had  sung  or  skipped  for  joy  at  her  change. 

That  first  night  in  the  Hall,  what  a  night  that  was 
of  revelation  in  marvels!  The  richly  furnished 
rooms,  the  stately  staircases,  the  largeness  and  the 
luxury  of  the  life  that  was  displayed  on  all  sides 
appealed  instantly  to  the  child's  sense  of  well-being. 
To  Lady  Doubble  the  establishment  at  Cloyne 
Hall  seemed  a  modest  enough  affair;  her  keen  sight 
could  discern  a  thousand  telltale  things  that 
shrieked  aloud  the  poverty  of  the  Cloynes  and  the 
difficulty  that  they  had  to  keep  up  the  show  of 
ease.  But  Grania  did  not  discern  these  things,  and 
influences  that  were  lost  upon  Lady  Doubble  were 
not  lost  upon  the  girl — the  influence  of  beautiful  old 
furniture  in  a  beautiful  old  dwelling,  of  an  atmos- 
phere created  by  generations  of  residence,  of  the 
tone  that  time  had  slowly  given  to  a  dwelling,  the 
138 


METAMORPHOSIS 

tone  and  touches  that  made  it  a  work  of  art.  In 
the  picture-gallery  she  did  not  heed  as  Lady  Doub- 
ble  heeded  the  cracked  frames  and  faded  gilding 
of  the  frames;  she  recognized  by  instinct  that  the 
portraits  of  the  Cloynes  and  their  kinsfolk,  men 
and  women,  were  true  things,  admirable  creations, 
calling  to  her  with  that  voice  of  command  to  which 
kindness  of  any  kind  always  found  her  responsive 
and  obedient.  The  bewildering  magnificence  of 
it  all  took  Crania's  breath  away,  and  if  she  had 
been  only  by  a  little  less  witful  than  she  was,  she 
would  have  betrayed  herself  a  thousand  times  in 
as  many  seconds.  But  while  she  inwardly  mar- 
veled she  was  outwardly  calm.  She  took  the  minis- 
trations of  the  great  ladies,  and  of  their  subalterns, 
the  ladies'  maids,  with  a  composed  indifference 
which  seemed  baffling  to  the  subalterns  and  ad- 
mirable to  the  superior  officers.  In  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  day  Grania  O'Hara  sloughed  off  the 
skin  of  her  poverty  and  arose  invested  by  the  splen- 
dor of  her  wealth,  with  no  shamefacedness,  no 
hesitation  to  mark  the  transition  between  the  chrys- 
alis and  the  butterfly.  When  she  sailed  into  the 
banqueting-room  of  the  Hall  for  supper  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  which  had  begun  with  the  battle 
of  the  Round  Tower,  she  seemed  astonishingly 
self-composed  in  the  eyes  of  the  two  ladies  that 
were  acting,  and  were  mighty  pleased  to  act,  as 
her  fairy  godmothers.  As  for  the  gentlemen,  it  is 
free  to  admit  that  all  four  thought  her  perfection. 
139 


BOOK  II 
THE  SOUL  OF  ERIN  IN  ST.  JAMES'S  SQUARE 


BUTTERFLY-BIRTH 

IT  was  decided  by  the  Cloynes,  after  long  and 
serious  consultation  with  Mr.  Pointdexter,  that 
Grania  should  not  be  carried  at  once  to  London, 
but  should  proceed  thither  by  the  stepping-stones 
of  Dublin  and  of  Paris.  In  the  capital  of  her 
native  land  Grania  should  receive  the  earliest  rites 
of  initiation  into  the  mysteries  of  society  and  learn 
the  easier  rules  of  its  game.  In  Paris,  where  the 
restored  Bourbon  held  his  court  and  welcomed 
English  visitors  to  his  kingdom,  the  girl  might 
study  the  stately  politeness  and  splendid  etiquette 
of  that  old  order  of  things  now  eagerly  reasserting 
itself  after  an  exile  of  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Also, 
she  might  acquire  a  wardrobe  worthy  of  her  wealth, 
her  beauty,  and  her  youth,  so  that  when  at  last  she 
arrived  in  London  she  would  be  fitly  equipped  for 
its  subjugation. 

If  the  Cloynes  and  Mr.  Pointdexter  were  unani- 
mous in  agreement  as  to  these  plans  for  polishing 
their  precious  stone,  they  were  also  unanimous  in 
declaring  that  Grania  already  wanted  very  little 
indeed  to  make  her  a  great  lady.  With  these 
H3 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

schemes  for  her  immediate  future  Grania  was  quite 
content.  She  had  never  been  in  a  city  in  her  life, 
and  would  have  gone  to  Dublin  or  to  Damascus 
with  an  equal  ignorance  and  an  equal  eagerness. 
She  had  always  longed  to  see  the  world  of  which 
she  knew  so  little,  but  as  the  realization  of  her 
wishes  seemed  impossible,  she  had  kept  her  longing 
to  herself,  like  a  sensible  young  woman,  and  made  the 
best  of  what  Heaven  had  given.  Now  that  Heaven 
had  been  pleased  to  increase  its  bounty,  she  ex- 
tended her  hands  in  rapture  toward  the  unknown 
kingdoms  and  the  wonders  and  the  pleasures  that 
they  promised  her. 

Yet  neither  the  satisfaction  nor  the  -desires  of  her 
new  life  had  any  power  to  push  her  lover  from  his 
first  place  in  her  thoughts  and  in  her  heart.  Her 
one  regret  in  her  new  splendor  was  that  Dennis 
should  be  absent  in  its  dawn.  Her  chief  desire  was 
to  call  him  to  her  side.  This  she  could  not  do  at 
once,  for  Dennis  had  gone  away  from  her  giving  no 
address  to  which  she  could  write.  He  had  promised 
to  write  to  her  as  soon  as  he  had  settled;  but  the  days 
came  and  the  days  went  and  brought  their  tale  of 
great  changes  into  Crania's  life,  yet  brought  no 
message  from  the  absent  man.  Grania  would  have 
rejoiced  to  share  the  good  news  and  the  good  fortune 
with  Dennis  at  once.  She  hated  the  delay  which 
kept  them  apart  when  they  should  be  together. 

After  a  while,  when  the  silence  continued,  Gra- 
nia began  to  grow  anxious,  and  while  she  and 
144 


BUTTERFLY-BIRTH 

the  Cloynes  were  in  Dublin  she  begged  Mr.  Point- 
dexter,  who  had  business  in  London,  to  make 
such  inquiries  as  he  could  with  a  view  to  finding 
out  Dennis's  whereabouts.  This  Mr.  Pointdexter 
readily  promised  to  do,  and  Grania  was  carried  to 
Paris  cheered  by  the  hope  that  she  should  soon  have 
news  of  her  lover.  She  had  been  quite  candid  with 
Mr.  Pointdexter  about  Dennis  Tirowen,  and  Mr. 
Pointdexter  had  listened  with  a  grave  air  of  sym- 
pathy and  had  expressed  no  personal  opinion  on  the 
matter.  To  the  Cloynes  Grania  had  said  nothing 
of  Dennis.  She  knew  well  enough  that  they  would 
never  understand  her  feelings,  that  they  would  and 
could  only  regard  a  rich  woman's  affection  for  a  poor 
man  of  a  lower  class  than  herself  as  a  monstrous 
madness.  Grania  meant  very  steadily  to  have  her 
own  way  and  to  follow  her  own  heart's  inclining,  but 
she  did  not  care  to  waste  time  and  energy  in  useless 
disputation,  so  she  shrewdly  kept  her  sweet  secret 
to  herself,  and  Lady  Cloyne  watching  the  child's 
triumphs  in  Dublin  and  in  Paris  never  dreamed  that 
she  was  other  than  fancy-free. 

Grania  did  indeed  triumph  in  Paris  as  she  had 
triumphed  in  Dublin, but  the  ache  at  her  heart  grew 
daily  greater,  for  Mr.  Pointdexter  wrote  often,  but 
always  with  no  news  of  Dennis.  It  was  naturally 
not  easy  to  trace  an  obscure  stranger  in  a  great  city 
like  London,  but  Mr.  Pointdexter  did  his  best  and 
preached  patience.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  and 
Grania  carried  a  smiling  face  into  the  great  houses 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

of  Paris  while  care  was  gnawing  at  her  heart.  She 
was  glad  when  the  Cloynes  decided  that  the  time 
had  come  to  quit  Paris  and  to  make  the  memorable 
descent  upon  London.  Dennis  had  gone  to  London; 
Dennis  must  be  in  London;  she  would  be  nearer  to 
him,  would  surely  be  guided  to  find  him.  She  was 
strangely  sure  that  Dennis  was  alive.  Whatever 
had  happened  to  keep  him  from  writing  to  her,  he 
lived.  This  confidence  supported  her  in  her  anx- 
iety, and  in  that  confidence  she  came  to  London. 


II 

THE    COMET   OF    FIFTEEN 

IF  Crania  had  risen  like  a  moon  upon  Dublin  and 
shone  like  a  star  upon  Paris,  she  blazed  upon 
London  like  a  comet,  a  portent  beautiful  and  be- 
wildering, prodigious  and  magnificent.  The  bruit 
of  her  strange  story  preceded  her  arrival  and  pre- 
pared her  triumph.  Countless  paragraphs  in  the 
newspapers  had  related  at  great  length  and  with 
staggering  inaccuracy  the  tale  of  her  misfortunes 
and  her  fortune.  The  romantic  history  of  her 
family  was  blown  abroad  in  ceaseless  whispers  along 
the  gossipy  corridors  of  the  Temple  of  Notoriety. 
All  the  tongues  of  rumor  tattled,  all  the  ears  of 
credulity  pricked,  all  the  mouths  of  wonder  gaped. 
She  was  famous  for  her  wealth  before  she  set  foot 
on  English  soil,  famous  for  her  beauty,  two  things 
which  it  was  hard  even  for  report  to  magnify;  fa- 
mous, too,  according  to  report,  for  the  multitude  of 
hearts  she  had  already  enslaved  in  the  capital  of 
Ireland  and  the  capital  of  France.  No  fantastically 
capricious  heroine  of  Neapolitan  fairy  tale  or  Vene- 
tian fairy  play  had  been  more  adored,  or  more  hope- 
lessly. She  was  credited  with  a  list  of  suitors  a  mile 
147 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

long,  and  the  wildest  stories  were  repeated,  amplified, 
and,  when  occasion  called,  invented  by  Mr.  Bowley, 
of  The  Scourge;  Mr.  Shadd,  of  The  Whistle,  and 
their  kind,  concerning  the  extravagancies  to  which 
the  golden  youth  of  Dublin  and  the  golden  youth  of 
Paris  resorted  in  the  hope  of  winning  her  favor  or 
at  least  her  regard. 

All  the  curiosity — and  it  was  intense — that  could 
be  kindled  by  the  pens  of  the  journals — and  they 
were  busy — was  more  than  gratified  when,  as  the 
fitting  climax  to  her  resplendent  apparitions  in 
Dublin  -and  in  Paris,  Grania  at  length  made  her 
appearance  in  London  with  Lord  and  Lady  Cloyne 
as  her  sponsors  and  introducers.  Never  in  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  man-about-town,  or  most 
reminiscent  dowager,  had  any  young  woman  made 
so  instantaneous  and  so  Amazing  a  mark  upon 
society.  Her  name  was  never  out  of  the  personal 
paragraphs  in  the  newspapers;  her  name  was 
never  off  the  lips  of  those  that  had  only  talked  of 
the  latest  fashions  in  clothes,  in  women,  and  in 
wine.  Her  portrait  was  rapidly  painted  by  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  limner  to  the  king,  who  pre- 
tended to  be  hopelessly  in  love  with  his  lovely 
sitter,  but  who  did  not  allow  his  passion  to  prevent 
him  from  charging  an  extravagant  price  for  his 
canvas. 

The  picture  was  exhibited  in  Bond  Street,  because 
public  impatience  could  not  wait  for  the  opening 
of  the  Royal  Academy.  It  was  shown  all  by  itself 
148 


THE    COMET    OF    FIFTEEN 

in  a  room  at  the  back  of  Longhi's  shop,  which  was 
hung  with  green  satin  in  honor  of  the  lady's  nation- 
ality. The  amount  of  money  which  the  public 
paid  to  see  the  picture  was  enormous.  On  the 
frame  of  the  picture  the  painter  had  set  no  name, 
only  the  words,  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid,"  and  the 
title  took  the  fancy  of  the  town  and  was  repeated 
everywhere.  Whenever  men  and  women  spoke  of 
Grania  O'Hara — and  in  the  fashionable  circles  just 
then  people  spoke  of  little  else — they  spoke  of  her 
always  as  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid."  Poets  wrote 
verses  to  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid";  musicians  dedi- 
cated songs  to  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid";  enterpris- 
ing potters  reproduced  her  lineaments  on  plates 
and  dishes.  All  sets  and  cliques  of  society,  how- 
ever hostile  they  might  have  been  before,  agreed 
to  unite  in  doing  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid"  homage. 
There  was  no  young  man  who  respected  himself 
who  did  no  profess  the  profoundest  passion  for  the 
beautiful  stranger,  and  to  declare  himself  heart- 
broken over  the  hopelessness  of  his  case.  Even  the 
ladies  that  had  believed  themselves  to  be  queens 
of  London  and  peerless  in  beauty  before  her  com- 
ing forbore  to  be  jealous,  being  so  dazzled  by  the 
golden  atmosphere  of  Crania's  wealth  that  they 
could  consent  to  blink  at  her  loveliness. 

At  first,  indeed,  there  had  been  those  who  were 
inclined  to  be  skeptical  as  to  the  vast  extent  of 
Crania's  fortune,  but  a  very  few  inquiries  judi- 
ciously put  to  Sir  William  Doubble  and  Sir  William 

11  149 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Doubble's  wife  soon  convinced  the  most  incredu- 
lous that  rumor,  which  is  generally  credited  with 
the  tendency  .to  treble  or  quadruple  the  fortunes 
of  the  rich,  for  once  had  underrated  rather  than 
overrated  the  greatness  of  the  wealth  that  had 
suddenly  been  placed  at  the  command  of  a  girl. 
The  most  exclusive  sets  rejoiced  to  welcome  her 
into  their  temples,  the  exacting  and  imperious 
committee  of  Almack's  welcomed  her  with  a  rap- 
turous cordiality,  and  the  most  dignified  duchess 
and  most  exclusive  countess  regarded  the  presence 
of  Grania  at  her  house  as  a  compliment.  As  for 
the  Prince's  set,  they  were  boisterously  enthusiastic 
in  their  praises  of  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid."  Not  a 
man  of  them  all  but  paid  her  the  floridest  compli- 
ments and  competed  eagerly  for  a  smile.  They 
toasted  her  beauty  early  and  late.  They  vied  with 
one  another  for  the  favor  of  her  hand  at  a  dance, 
and  declared  that  to  sit  next  to  her  at  dinner  or 
supper  was  the  most  enviable  of  human  privileges. 
Captain  Morris  made  rhymes  about  her,  of  which 
one  verse  was  very  popular: 

Cleopatra  of  Egypt  was  comely, 

And  Helen  was  handsome,  'tis  said, 

But  there's  one   here    that   makes  them  look 

homely, 
One   angel,  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid." 

Even  my  Lord  Coleraine  emerged  from  his  retire- 
ment at  Somers  Town  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  girl, 
150 


THE    COMET    OF    FIFTEEN 

protesting  with  a  flourish  of  his  shillalah  to  the 
gatherers  in  the  tap-room  of  the  Sol  Arms,  in 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  or  to  the  cognoscenti  in 
the  studio  of  Mr.  Nollekens,  that  "The  Fair  Irish 
Maid"  was  the  loveliest  thing  that  had  ever  come 
out  of  Ireland.  Carlton  House  and  its  royal  resi- 
dent were  metaphorically  at  her  feet,  and  his  Royal 
Highness  would  have  welcomed  her  daily  to  his 
hospitable  mansion  if  he  could  have  persuaded  her 
to  come  so  often.  At  the  Prince  Regent's  supper 
parties  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid"  was  always  drunk 
with  all  the  honors  at  an  early  season  of  the  evening 
in  order  that  the  company  might  be  sufficiently 
sober  fittingly  to  honor  the  occasion. 

Many  of  those  that  went  into  raptures  over 
Crania's  beauty  did  so  in  terms  that  would  have 
scarcely  edified  the  girl  if  she  had  heard  them.  But 
she  did  not  hear  them,  and  if  any  hint  of  them  had 
been  reported  to  her  she  was  wise  enough  to  know 
that  the  language  of  admiration  varies  according  to 
its  environment.  As  it  was,  she  went  on  her  way 
delightfully  unspoiled  by  the  incense  that  was  burned 
so  lavishly  on  her  public  altars.  She  was  honest 
enough  to  admit  that  it  gave  her  pleasure,  but  she 
would  have  given  it  all  gladly  for  the  sight  of  one 
man's  face,  for  the  sound  of  one  man's  voice. 


Ill 

THE  LITTLE  QUEEN 

IT  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Grania,  after  a  visit 
to  Dublin,  a  visit  to  Paris,  and  a  visit  to  Lon- 
don, all  under  the  chaperonage  of  the  inestimable 
Lady  Cloyne,  was  converted  as  if  by  magic  into  a 
perfect  copy  of  a  typical  lady  of  fashion.  No  such 
metamorphosis  was  possible  and  no  such  metamor- 
phosis was  desirable.  Grania  remained  herself  in 
London  as  in  Paris,  and  in  Paris  as  in  Dublin.  She 
carried  with  her  everywhere  the  untutored  charm  of 
the  free  life  she  had  lived,  and  she  carried  into 
crowded  drawing-rooms  the  air  of  a  sylvan  goddess. 
She  disdained  to  train  her  tongue  into  a  mimicry 
of  the  London  way  of  speech,  and  her  admirers  one 
and  all  protested  that  her  Irish  accent  was  the  most 
delightful  thing  ever  heard.  Had  Grania  been  de- 
liberately resolved  to  play  a  part  in  order  to  gain 
social  success  she  could  not  have  done  better  than 
she  did.  There  was  something  so  naively  refresh- 
ing, so  distracting  and  daintily  eccentric,  in  the  sud- 
den appearance  in  the  social  world  of  this  beautiful 
savage — for  so  some  of  the  wits  were  pleased  to 
style  her — that  it  insured  from  the  first  her  triumph. 
152 


THE    LITTLE    QUEEN 

ButGrania  played  no  part,  acted  with  no  purpose; 
she  simply  followed  her  natural  impulses,  and  re- 
mained frankly  and  gallantly  herself. 

She  was,  however,  at  no  such  disadvantage  in  this 
new  world  wherein  she  moved  as  must  have  impeded 
the  path  of  another  less  curiously  situated.  For  all 
that  Grania  had  lived  the  life  of  a  peasant,  worn  a 
peasant's  wear,  and  eaten  a  peasant's  bread,  she  had 
never  forgotten,  and,  indeed,  had  never  been  allowed 
to  forget,  that  she  was  an  O'Hara,  the  daughter  of  an 
ancient  race.  The  old  nurse  that  had  taken  charge 
of  her  after  the  ruin  of  Ninety-eight  kept  alive  in  her 
the  sense  of  the  privilege  of  her  birth,  and  had,  as 
well  as  she  was  able,  brought  her  up  with  that  care 
and  deference  to  which  true  gentility  was  entitled. 
The  peasants  with  whom  Grania  came  in  contact 
from  her  earliest  days,  with  whom  she  played  as  a 
child,  with  whom  she  danced  as  a  girl,  never  forgot 
for  a  moment  that  the  child,  the  girl,  who  seemed  to 
be  one  of  themselves  was  in  reality  a  maiden  that  if 
she  had  her  rights  would  reign  like  a  queen  over 
them.  The  terms  of  familiarity  on  which  they 
lived  were  always  guided  by  an  extreme  deference 
and  respect  on  the  part  of  Crania's  companions  and 
by  the  gracious  dignity  of  Grania  herself. 

Thus  from  the  first  dawn  of  her  consciousness  of 
the  world  Grania  had  been  accustomed  in  spite  of 
her  poverty  to  receive  and  to  accept  homage.  When 
therefore  she  was  so  suddenly  and  fantastically  up- 
lifted from  the  comradeship  of  the  Cloyne  peasantry 
153 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  the  fellowship  of  the  great  she  took  her  place 
among  them  with  a  calm,  an  ease,  and  a  distinction 
that  not  a  little  surprised  those  who  were  unac- 
quainted with  the  circumstances  of  her  upbringing. 
The  homage  to  which  she  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed troubled  her  no  more  because  those  who  paid 
it  bore  titles  and  were  lords  and  ladies  than  it  had 
troubled  her  when  it  was  paid  by  men  that  wore 
coats  of  ragged  frieze.  The  last  of  the  O' Haras 
had  been  queen  of  her  little  corner  of  the  world  and 
her  little  handful  of  companions.  "The  Fair  Irish 
Maid"  that  was  the  toast  of  London  was  still  the 
last  of  the  O'Haras,  and  still  found  it  natural  to  be 
a  queen,  although  her  kingdom  was  changed,  and 
changed,  too,  the  condition  of  her  subjects 

If  Grania  was  welcomed  as  a  kind  of  uncrowned 
queen  in  London,  she  certainly  carried  on  the  busi- 
ness of  her  reign  in  a  right  regal  manner.  Acting 
cheerfully  in  her  interests — and  their  own — the 
Cloynes  spent  her  money  lavishly,  without  any  check 
upon  their  expenditure  from  either  Grania  or  Mr. 
Pointdexter.  The  Cloynes  had  never  known  the 
pleasures  and  privileges  attached  to  the  spending  of 
apparently  unlimited  money,  and  they  enjoyed  their 
amazing  opportunity  to  the  top  of  their  bent.  Their 
instructions  as  delivered  to  them  by  the  American 
lawyer  were  to  do  everything  possible  to  place 
Grania  in  the  best  imaginable  position  in  the  social 
world  of  London,  and  they  obeyed  their  instructions 
with  a  joyous  alacrity  which  was  happily  governed 
154 


THE    LITTLE    QUEEN 

by  a  genuine  intelligence.  Lord  Cloyne  made  an 
excellent  majordomo  and  his  wife  an  admirable 
lady  of  the  palace. 

Palace  was  indeed  the  word  to  apply  to  Crania's 
abode.  Lord  Clyne  secured,  regardless  of  cost,  the 
great  house  of  the  Marquis  of  Ashford  in  St. 
James's  Square,  which  was  rightly  reputed  to  be 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  houses  in  the  metropolis. 
Lord  Ashford  had  been  playing,  as  he  confessed  to 
Lord  Cloyne,  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact, 
"damnably  deep."  If  Lord  Cloyne  had  not  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene  with  his  purse  of  Fortuna  in 
his  fingers  there  seemed  every  likelihood  of  Ashford 
House  being  put  upon  the  market  and  all  its  accu- 
mulated treasures  being  dispersed.  Lord  Cloyne 
prevented  that  catastrophe.  He  sent  Lord  Ashford 
to  the  Continent  with  a  small  fortune  at  his  com- 
mand, and  he,  as  it  were,  formally  occupied  Ashford 
House  in  the  name  of  Her  Majesty  Queen  Grania, 
and  metaphorically  ran  up  her  flag  there. 

The  whole  matter  was  arranged  very  briskly. 
Lord  Cloyne  left  his  wife  and  her  charge  in  Paris 
enjoying  themselves  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  re- 
stored monarchy  and  came  to  London  and  the 
counsels  of  Mr.  Pointdexter.  When  my  lord  re- 
turned to  Paris  it  was  with  the  tidings  that  his 
mission  had  been  magnificently  successful,  and  that 
a  fairy  castle  was  waiting  for  the  presence  of  the 
fairy  princess  from  Erin.  Grania  on  her  arrival  in 
London  found  that  his  lordship  had  been  as  good 
155 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

as  his  word.  She  had  seen  nothing  in  Dublin  or  in 
Paris  to  compare  with  Ashford  House.  She  had 
never  dreamed  of  a  habitation  so  beautiful  or  so 
sumptuous.  The  late  Marquis  of  Ashford,  father 
of  the  young  gentleman  who  was  now  merrily  en- 
gaged in  circulating  a  goodly  number  of  Crania's 
guineas,  was  a  man  of  fine  taste,  whose  ambition  it 
had  been  to  own  the  most  glorious  home  in  London. 
Outside  it  was  no  more  than  a  stately  and  dignified 
edifice  in  a  stately  and  dignified  square.  Inside  it 
was  almost  unbelievably  lovely.  Its  furniture,  its 
pictures,  its  statues,  its  marbles,  were  all  master- 
pieces arranged  and  harmonized  by  a  master  hand. 
Though  it  had  cost  a  king's  ransom,  it  was  not  the 
thought  of  its  cost  but  the  thought  of  its  exquisite 
charm  that  first  came  to  the  mind  of  any  visitor  able 
to  appreciate  its  grace. 

To  Grania,  Ashford  House  appeared  an  enchanted 
mansion,  and  she  moved  through  its  marvels  in  a 
rapture.  It  might  have  been  conceived  and  con- 
structed— this  was  my  Lord  Cloyne's  fancy  and  not 
Crania's — for  no  other  purpose  than  to  serve  as  the 
splendid  setting  for  this  girl's  beauty.  Among  its 
carved  and  painted  goddesses  she  walked  like  a 
living  goddess,  glowing  with  delight  at  the  wonder- 
world  in  which  she  found  herself.  It  only  lacked 
one  thing  for  her — companionship,  the  companion- 
ship of  her  beloved.  What  bliss  it  would  have  been 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  that  marvelous  house 
for  the  first  time  with  Dennis  Tirowen  by  her  side! 
156 


THE    LITTLE    QUEEN 

She  pleased  and  grieved  herself  with  thinking  how 
the  heart  of  her  poet  lover  would  have  throbbed  re- 
sponsive to  its  appeal,  how  the  soul  of  her  poet 
lover,  inspired  by  the  magic  of  the  place,  would  have 
flowed  into  some  noble  song. 

But  there  was  no  Dennis  to  attend  her,  and 
Grania  sorrowed  for  him  with  a  smiling  face.  It 
was,  of  course,  impossible  for  her  not  to  take  pleas- 
ure, and  even  much  pleasure,  in  the  new  life  which 
had  come  to  her.  She  was  young,  she  was  healthy, 
her  nature  answered  blithely  to  delight.  Yet  she 
longed  for  Dennis,  and  never  ceased  to  seek  him, 
and  never  ceased  to  mourn  for  him  in  secret,  and 
never  ceased  to  wonder  why  he  kept  aloof  and 
made  no  sign,  and  never  ceased  to  be  confident  that 
he  lived  and  would  come  to  her  in  the  fullness  of 
time  and  share  in  her  fair  fortune.  Daily  and 
nightly  she  prayed  that  the  time  might  be  soon,  and 
daily  and  nightly  she  saw  him  in  her  waking  and 
sleeping  dreams. 

If  Ashford  House  and  all  its  gear  were  worthy  of 
its  queen,  my  Lord  Cloyne  took  exemplary  care  to 
see  that  its  organization  was  ordered  on  truly  royal 
lines.  His  luxury-loving  nature  reveled  in  the  task 
that  had  so  strangely  and  delightfully  been  put  upon 
him.  He  could  plunge  both  hands  into  money  and 
scatter  it  abroad  without  a  pang,  and  he  indulged 
Grania,  and,  in  consequence,  Lady  Cloyne  and  him- 
self, in  a  splendor  of  service  and  appointments  that 
made  the  establishment  in  St.  James's  Square  re- 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

semble  a  mimic  court.  There  was  a  small  army 
of  carefully  chosen  and  admirably  disciplined  ser- 
vants whose  numbers  amazed  Grania,  although  she 
warily  and  discreetly  kept  her  amazement  to  herself. 
Their  well-drilled  numbers  served  to  console  Lord 
Cloyne  for  the  meager  condition  of  his  household  at 
Cloyne  Hall,  where  a  petty  following  was  called  upon 
to  do  duty  for  a  whole  horde,  and  did  it  very  badly. 
In  the  semi-royal  regime  at  Ashford  House  the  Cloyne 
family  found  agreeable  employment. 

Not  only  was  Lord  Cloyne  the  majordomo  and 
Lady  Cloyne  his  able  lieutenant,  but  Captain  Cur- 
tius,  too,  had  a  finger  in  the  pie.  Captain  Curtius, 
as  a  recognized  authority  on  good  living,  cheerfully 
accepted  his  brother's  suggestion  to  act  as  a  sort 
of  Minister  of  the  Home  Department,  and  see  that 
the  cellar  was  excellent  and  the  master  cook  the 
best  in  London.  This  office  the  gallant  captain 
accepted  with  the  more  alacrity,  because  it  not 
merely  excused  but  justified  him  in  an  attendance 
at  Ashford  House  which  was  little  less  than  in- 
cessant. Lord  Cloyne  approved  this  attendance; 
Captain  Curtius  agreed  heartily,  and  Grania  made 
no  objection,  because  she  found  Captain  Curtius  a 
very  pleasant  companion. 

Through  all  the  splendor  and  glitter  and  brave 
show  of  Ashford  House,  through  those  rooms  always 
filled  with  noble  works  of  art,  and  often  crowded 
with  the  best  of  London's  wealth  and  youth  and 
rank  and  beauty,  Mr.  Pointdexter  moved  at  his 
158 


THE    LITTLE    QUEEN 

pleasure,  a  grim,  almost  sinister,  figure  against  so 
gorgeous  a  background.  He  had  a  suite  of  rooms 
set  apart  for  him  in  the  house  which  he  used  as  he 
pleased  and  when  he  pleased.  He  was  always  con- 
sulted by  Lord  Cloyne  in  any  of  the  many  steps 
that  he  took  for  the  enhancing  of  the  grandeur  of 
Crania's  residence,  and  Mr.  Pointdexter  raised  no 
objection  to  the  most  lavish  expenditure,  and 
seemed  only  eager  to  approve  and  to  encourage 
any  extravagance  which  might  be  incurred  on  be- 
half of  Grania.  It  was,  of  course,  perfectly  obvious 
to  Mr.  Pointdexter  that  Lord  Cloyne  was  a  great 
gainer  by  his  position  with  regard  to  his  charge, 
and  Lord  Cloyne  was  perfectly  aware  that  it  must 
be  perfectly  obvious,  and  made  no  attempt  either  to 
conceal  his  consciousness  or  to  allow  it  to  express 
itself  too  markedly. 


IV 

A   PRIVATE    SECRETARY 

THE  officials  of  Queen  Crania's  little  court  in- 
cluded a  private  secretary,  whose  work  was, 
to  use  a  slang  phrase,  cut  out  for  him.  When 
Grania  first  heard  Lord  Cloyne  suggest  that  a 
private  secretary  was  an  appointment  essential  for 
her  well-being  she  was  inclined  to  laugh  at  what 
seemed  intended  for  a  jest.  But  his  lordship  was 
most  seriously  punctilious  in  all  that  concerned  the 
administration  of  Ashford  House,  and  he  assured 
Grania  very  earnestly  that  a  private  secretary  was 
an  imperative  necessity.  Indeed,  Grania  found 
soon  enough  that  a  secretary  had  plenty  to  do  in 
dealing  with  the  inevitable  correspondence  of  a 
wealthy  young  lady  of  fashion.  My  lord  was 
prompted  in  his  choice  of  the  man  by  the  voice  of 
friendship;  but  his  choice  proved  judicious. 

Mr.  Peregrine  Fenny  was  a  young  gentleman 
whom  faith,  with  that  irony  it  so  often  employs  at 
the  expense  of  the  human  comedians,  had  equipped 
with  every  advantage  for  shining  in  the  social  world, 
except  that  of  possessing  money  or  the  power  of 
making  money.  The  Fennys  were  too  numerous 
160 


A    PRIVATE    SECRETARY 

to  be  wealthy,  and  even  if  old  Lord  Compton  were 
to  quit  a  scene  whereon  he  had  lingered  so  long, 
his  demise  would  not  advantage  Mr.  Peregrine. 
The  younger  son  of  a  younger  son,  his  actual  in- 
come was  less  than  that  of  many  a  city  clerk,  which 
was  a  meager  measure  for  a  springal  who  was  en- 
dowed with  the  tastes  and  desires  of  a  plutocrat. 
Mr.  Fenny  found  his  poverty  the  more  deplorable 
because  he  was  well  aware  that  his  person  deserved 
all  that  money  could  do  for  it.  He  was  tall  and 
well-figured,  sufficiently  handsome  of  face  to  allure, 
sufficiently  gallant  of  carriage  to  attract,  of  a  ready 
wit  and  graceful  deportment.  He  was  excellently 
self-possessed,  convinced  by  experience  of  his 
power  to  please,  and  he  commanded  at  times  an 
epigrammatic  causticity  of  expression.  He  wore 
his  clothes  with  an  air  and  ease  which  came  to  him 
naturally,  and  which  not  a  few  of  the  elaborate 
dandies  envied  and  emulated  in  vain.  There  was 
nothing  of  elaborate  dandyism  about  Mr.  Fenny, 
who  managed  to  be  aptly  modish  without  apparent 
effort.  If  he  had  been  compelled  to  wear  old  gar- 
ments, they  would  have  seemed  as  good  as  new  on 
this  comely  person;  but  there  were  few  that  had 
ever  yet  seen  Peregrine  Fenny  in  anything  but  the 
latest  moment  of  the  latest  mode.  How  he  per- 
suaded tailors  and  hatters  and  bootmakers  and 
hosiers  to  provide  for  him  was  one  of  the  many 
mysteries  of  his  existence.  But  he  did  persuade, 
and  was  always  point-device  the  beau.  There  were 
161 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

those  who  suggested  that  he  was  so  highly  favored 
because  he  was  so  admirable  an  advertisement  for 
their  wares.  However  that  might  be,  the  fact  re- 
mained that  Mr.  Fenny  was  one  of  the  best  dressed 
men  in  town. 

He  played,  of  course,  as  every  gentleman  must 
needs  play  that  was  privileged  to  move  in  fine 
society,  but  he  was  too  cunning  to  allow  the  gam- 
bler's passion  to  run  away  with  him.  Knowing 
that  he  was  poor  and  hating  to  be  poor,  he  was 
wisely  conscious  that  he  of  all  men  could  least 
afford  to  run  risks  at  the  faro-table.  He  was  wisely 
conscious  that  the  goddess  of  fortune  had  seldom 
favors  for  the  needy  and  adventurous  unless,  in- 
deed, they  condescended  to  employ  the  arts  of  the 
Greek.  And,  according  to  the  rules  of  the  social 
game,  Mr.  Fenny  was  a  man  of  honor.  It  was  said, 
indeed,  that  his  code  did  not  prevent  him  from 
accepting  more  substantial  gifts  than  mere  smiles 
and  caresses  from  the  ladies — and  they  were  many 
— to  whom  he  paid  his  generally  welcome  attentions. 
It  is  true  that  this  way  of  supplementing  a  meager 
income,  at  one  time  the  accepted  and  steady  stand- 
by of  a  fine  gallant,  had  somewhat  fallen  from 
fashion  since  the  days  of  the  Merry  Monarch,  when 
Rochester  rhymed  and  Grammont  rode  away,  and 
handsome  Jack  Churchill  found  his  handsomeness 
a  financial  asset.  It  was  no  longer  publicly  reck- 
oned and  approved  of  as  a  creditable  source  of  in- 
come for  a  gentleman  afflicted  with  a  lean  exchequer. 
162 


A    PRIVATE    SECRETARY 

If  it  had  been  as  certainly  known  as  it  was  gen- 
erally believed  that  Peregrine  Fenny  owed  his  fine 
clothes  and  his  fine  linen  and  his  dainty  lodgings  in 
Jermyn  Street  to  the  generously  given  guineas  of 
the  fair  rather  than  to  his  patrimony,  his  industry,  or 
his  good  fortune  at  cards,  it  would  not  have  altered 
in  any  appreciable  degree  his  standing  in  a  society 
of  which  he  considered  himself,  and  was,  indeed, 
largely  considered,  to  be  an  ornament.  But  like 
the  gifts  of  the  goddess  that  presides  over  the  cut 
of  the  cards  and  the  cast  of  the  ivories,  the  gifts  of 
the  fair  are  precarious.  Peregrine  Fenny  sighed, 
not  for  more  worlds  of  women  to  conquer,  but  more 
prosaically  for  some  more  permanent  basis  for  his 
exchequer. 

A  man  may  always  consider  himself  a  lover,  but 
he  may  not  always  be  considered  an  accepted  lover 
by  a  wayward  and  capricious  sex.  Mr.  Fenny  was 
not  so  vain  of  his  triumphs  as  to  fail  in  philosophy, 
and  he  yearned  for  security.  He  would  have  liked 
well  enough  some  comfortable  little  office  such  as 
the  ministry  in  power  always  had  at  their  disposal 
to  reward  greedy  place-seekers  as  eager  of  in- 
surance as  he.  But  Mr.  Fenny  could  not  command 
much  influence  with  the  ministry,  for  the  Compton 
gang  were  too  poor  to  be  popular  or  powerful,  and 
though  he  had  uninteresting  if  influential  friends 
whose  good-will,  if  carefully  solicited,  might  pos- 
sibly have  served  him  well  to  his  ends,  the  young 
man  was  too  incorrigibly  idle  and  too  impertinently 
163 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

fastidious  to  be  at  the  pains  of  pursuing  a  tedious 
acquaintanceship  even  to  his  own  ultimate  ad- 
vantage. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  Mr.  Fenny  was  think- 
ing most  seriously  of  the  future,  albeit  enjoying  most 
avidly  the  present,  that  the  appearance  in  town  of 
Grania,  her  triumph  in  society  and  the  throwing 
open  under  conditions  of  unusual  opulence  and 
hospitality  of  the  stately  house  in  St.  James's 
Square  which  Lord  Cloyne  had  obtained  for  her, 
seemed  to  Mr.  Fenny  like  welcome  dawn  after  a 
weary  night.  He  lost  no  time  in  being  presented 
to  the  reigning  beauty  by  Lord  Cloyne,  who  was 
his  intimate  friend,  and  who  was  never  the  man  to  be 
reluctant  to  do  a  good  turn  to  a  boon  companion 
at  the  expense  of  some  one  else.  Mr.  Peregrine 
was  fortunate  enough  to  please  Grania,  as  he  was 
used  to  please  all  women,  by  his  nimble  wit,  his 
ready  speech,  his  comely  person,  his  airy  carriage, 
and  the  slight  suggestion  of  impertinence  which 
gave  a  salt  to  his  well-studied  and  seemingly  so 
spontaneous  gallantry.  Then  came  to  Mr.  Penny's 
alert  ears  some  words  about  the  fair  lady's  pressing 
need  of  the  services  of  a  private  secretary.  A  swift 
thought  kindled  in  Peregrine's  alert  mind,  and  a 
hint  very  patently  given  to  my  Lord  Cloyne  had 
ripened  swiftly.  In  a  very  short  time  Mr.  Fenny 
found  himself  a  daily  visitor  in  St.  James's  Square, 
not  as  a  merely  persistent  and  tolerated  acquaint- 
ance, but  as  a  recognized  and  welcome  personage 
164 


A    PRIVATE    SECRETARY 

duly  installed  in  the  office  of  private  secretary  to 
Grania. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Lord  Cloyne  could  scarcely 
have  made  a  better  choice  for  such  a  post.  Mr. 
Fenny  proved  himself  an  excellent  help  to  the  girl. 
He  knew  everything  and  everybody  that  was  con- 
sidered worth  knowing  in  the  world  in  which  Grania 
now  found  herself  to  be  the  acknowledged  queen. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  known  about  the  etiquette 
of  entertaining  which  he  did  not  know.  The  in- 
tricacies of  the  peerage  were  child's  play  to  him. 
He  had  a  consummate  knowledge  of  the  whole 
scandalous  history  of  the  Regency,  and  his  scandal- 
mongering  had  this  advantage  over  that  of  many 
of  his  rivals  in  the  art  that  he  never  made  mistakes. 
He  knew  who  could  be  known  and  who  could  not 
be  known  to  a  nicety,  and  in  the  art  of  bringing  to 
the  same  table  the  people  who  would  agree  he  was 
a  past  master. 

If  he  was  immeasurably  useful  to  Grania,  she  also 
found  him  immeasurably  entertaining,  and  she 
accorded  him  in  consequence  a  degree  of  intimacy 
which  many  would  have  deemed  unwise,  but  which 
did  not  seem  at  all  unwise  to  Grania,  who  thorough- 
ly understood  Peregrine  within  ten  minutes  of  the 
first  time  of  meeting  him.  If  at  the  beginning  a 
faint  hope  may  have  flamed  in  Mr.  Penny's  heart 
that  through  his  acquaintance  with  the  Irish  heiress 
might  come  the  solution  of  his  difficulties  and  that 
satisfactory  settlement  in  life  which  was  now  his 

12  165 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

ever-present  dream,  he  was  soon  wise  enough  to 
see  his  mistake.  The  first  moment  that  he  allowed 
any  suggestion  of  earnestness  to  come  into  his 
graceful  gallantry  he  was  so  promptly  and  decisive- 
ly made  to  feel  his  blunder  that  he  never  erred 
again.  It  was  quite  plain  that  Grania  and  her 
millions  were  not  for  him. 

Also,  my  Lord  Cloyne,  suspecting  maybe  some 
such  ambitions  in  his  friend's  mind,  was  careful  to 
make  it  plain  to  the  friend  that  my  Lord  Cloyne 
very  emphatically  wished  that  the  young  Irish  girl 
should  become  the  bride  of  his  gallant  brother, 
Captain  Curtius.  Having  taken  the  lady's  hint, 
Mr.  Fenny  was  less  inclined  to  resent  my  lord's 
wishes,  and  he  resigned  himself  to  the  very  agree- 
able conditions  in  which  his  new  way  of  life  was 
cast.  Yet  his  real  importance  in  the  life  of  Grania 
proved  to  be  that  he  was  of  a  certain  height  and 
commanded  an  extensive  wardrobe. 


FEASTS  AND  SUPPERS  OF  THE  GODS 

HPHIS  narrative  is  no  diurnal  of  the  life  of  Grania 
1  O'Hara,  no  meticulous  record  of  balls,  routs, 
masquerades,  banquets,  card  parties,  drums,  and 
all  other  such  high  festivities  imaginable.  She  went 
to  these  things;  she  gave  these  things;  they  occu- 
pied many  hours  of  many  days,  and  they  gave  her 
pleasure  that  would  have  been  greater  if  they  had 
been  shared  by  the  right  companion  so  strangely 
lost.  You  will  be  pleased  therefore — or  displeased 
if  by  chance  your  taste  finds  delectation  in  any  and 
every  recital  of  fashionable  follies  and  solemnities 
— to  take  for  granted  the  girl's  observance  of  all 
the  rites  and  rituals  of  these  ceremonials.  The 
memoirs  and  reminiscences  of  the  day,  and  es- 
pecially the  Redacre  papers  and  the  Journals  of 
Henry  Averill,  will  meet  your  need  if  you  hunger 
and  thirst  for  the  refreshment  of  further  particulars. 
Our  concern  is  with  but  certain  and  few  hours 
out  of  all  those  multitudinous  hours;  our  concern 
is  not  with  the  full  pageant  of  Crania's  public  joys, 
but  with  the  events  that  are  definitely  linked  with 
Crania's  private  sorrow.  These  are  picked  out 
167 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

from  the  rest;  these  stand  apart  with  their  essential 
elements  emphasized  against  the  glittering  back- 
ground of  discarded  jollities.  For  these  were  the 
only  hours  that  meant  anything  to  the  girl  herself; 
these  burned  with  the  conflagration  of  sunrise  and 
sunset,  where  those  did  but  glow  with  the  pale 
flame  of  candles  at  a  feast.  Yet  the  feast  was  agree- 
able enough  for  a  time,  though  it  staled  with  repeti- 
tion. For  Grania  its  flowers  soon  lost  their  fresh- 
ness, its  fruit  their  flavors,  its  lights  their  luster,  its 
smiles  their  sweetness,  and  its  jests  their  salt.  The 
wine  of  life  that  was  drunk  at  that  board  seemed  to 
her  to  run  thin  and  with  a  bitter  savor,  not  warm 
and  generous,  as  the  wine  of  life  should  flow.  No 
painted  mummy  was  borne  to  that  feast  with  its 
message  of  mortality.  Dennis  had  once  told  her 
of  this,  and  she  remembered  it  now,  and  reflected, 
that  no  such  symbol  was  needed  in  a  company  of 
revelers  who  could  scarcely  be  said  to  live. 

We  need  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Grania 
thinking  such  thoughts  found  life  under  the  care 
of  the  Cloynes  such  an  incessant  whirl  of  excite- 
ment and  entertainment  that  there  came  moments 
when  the  girl  revolted  against  the  ceaseless  motion 
and  insisted  upon  a  measure  of  relaxation  from  the 
dust  and  din  of  the  arduous  course.  The  Cloynes, 
who  were  a  sharp-witted  pair  and  very  much  on 
the  alert  where  their  own  interests  were  concerned, 
had  learned  from  the  beginning  that  though  Grania 
was  very  amenable  to  the  curious  kind  of  guardian- 
168 


FEASTS    OF   THE    GODS 

ship  which  she  had  consented  to  accept  and  pleas- 
antly yielding  to  their  guidance  and  tuition,  she 
was  still  very  clearly  conscious  that  she  was  the  head 
of  the  fellowship,  and  that  in  the  end,  if  she  found 
aught  in  the  conditions  of  her  existence  that  was 
irksome  or  repugnant  to  her,  it  was  her  will  that 
was  to  prevail.  It  came  about  thus  that  Grania, 
after  the  first  flush  of  her  interest  in  the  social 
world  of  London  had  faded,  made  it  a  habit  to  have 
one  quiet  day  in  the  week.  The  major  part  of  this 
day  she  passed  in  following  her  own  devices,  ever 
following  on  a  fruitless  quest.  The  evening  was 
given  up  to  the  quiet  reception  of  a  small  company 
to  what  was  practically  a  family  dinner  to  the  girl 
who  stood  so  lonely  in  the  world  and  had  no  kin. 

Here  and  now  this  was  one  of  those  days,  and 
the  company  that  was  to  assemble  at  Ashford  House 
that  night  numbered  only  those  whom  Grania  re- 
garded as  her  oldest  friends  in  the  world  she  now 
adorned.  Mr.  Pointdexter,  who  seldom  consented 
to  appear  at  the  more  crowded  entertainments  for 
which  Ashford  House  had  newly  become  famous, 
would  take  his  place  at  the  table.  Lord  and  Lady 
Cloyne  were  to  be  present,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Captain  Curtius,  discreetly  assiduous,  warily  play- 
ing his  waiting  game  of  how  to  woo  yet  never  seem 
to  woo,  was  almost  as  inevitable,  and  Mr.  Peregrine 
Fenny  would  also  be  there  by  virtue,  as  it  were,  of 
his  office.  Grania  had  also  asked  Lady  Doubble, 
partly  because  Lady  Cloyne  was  fond  of  her,  and 
169 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

partly  because  Lady  Doubble  was  in  a  sense  alone, 
as  Sir  William  was  on  the  Continent  on  one  of  his 
marauding  expeditions  in  search  of  monumental 
martyrs. 

At  the  first  blush  Grania  had  been  inclined 
to  like  Lady  Doubble.  Her  somewhat  full-blown 
comeliness,  her  free  and  easy  affability,  the  not  ill- 
hinted  tincture  of  simplicity  in  the  red  wine  of  her 
worldliness,  like  the  squeeze  of  lemon  in  a  well- 
handled  punch-bowl,  the  humor  of  a  girl  who, 
having  lost  her  first  shyness  of  a  strange  world,  was 
beginning  to  appraise,  to  catalogue,  to  weigh,  and 
after  fair  deliberation  to  decide.  What  she  knew 
from  Lady  Doubble's  occasional  and  cheerful  frank- 
ness, what  she  guessed  and  what  she  was  told — and 
she  was  told  much — of  Lady  Doubble's  morals  did 
not  in  the  least  disconcert  her  nor  seriously  distress 
her.  She  had  swiftly  realized  that  the  people  amid 
whom  it  had  pleased  Providence  to  place  her  were 
for  the  most  part  vehemently  immoral,  and  she 
was  not  shocked,  because  she  had  not  expected  to 
find  them  angels.  She  looked  upon  them  very 
much  as  Mr.  Lamb  looked  upon  the  figures  of  the 
Restoration  comedies;  their  world  seemed  unreal 
to  her  if  not  unamusing.  Hers  was  a  creed  that  did 
not  countenance  easy  judgment  of  others,  that  left 
judgment  of  others  to  a  higher  tribunal  than  in- 
dividual opinion. 

What  Lady  Doubble  might  be  was  no  affair  of 
Crania's.  If  she  was  no  better,  she  was  probably 
170 


FEASTS    OF    THE    GODS 

no  worse  than  the  majority  of  her  contemporaries. 
All  that  seemed  really  to  concern  Grania  was  how 
Lady  Doubble  carried  herself  in  the  gradually  in- 
creasing intimacy  of  a  London  season,  and  the  one 
thing  certain  was  that  Lady  Doubble  diverted 
Grania.  She  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  always  good- 
humored,  always  lively,  always  ostensibly  kind. 
No  rout  or  assembly  could  possibly  be  dull  where 
Lady  Doubble  was  a  leading  figure.  Grania,  who 
was  quick  in  learning,  had  learned  quickly  the  first 
rule  in  the  game  of  the  world,  to  take  people 
amiably  at  their  face  value  so  long  as  there  was  no 
reason  for  taking  them  otherwise. 

To  give  the  gathering  a  still  more  intimate  asso- 
ciation with  the  days,  that  now  seemed  so  infinitely 
remote,  when  Crania's  good  fortune  first  dawned, 
she  had  included  that  stalwart  politician  and  sturdy 
disciple  of  Mr.  Burke  and  Mr.  Fox,  Mr.  Rubie,  in 
her  company.  She  had  met  Mr.  Rubie  again  soon 
after  her  appearance  in  London  at  one  of  the  great 
Whig  houses,  for  Grania  made  no  distinction  in 
English  politics,  regarding  each  party  with  equal 
indifference  as  factions  of  an  alien  race,  and  being 
received  by  each  with  equal  enthusiasm.  Mr. 
Rubie  had  hastened  to  present  himself  to  her,  had 
ventured  to  hope  that  she  had  not  forgotten  him, 
and  seemed  amazingly  pleased,  and  for  all  that 
was  more  pleased  than  he  seemed,  to  learn  that  she 
remembered  him  very  well  and  was  glad  to  meet 
him  again.  Indeed,  Grania  was  glad  to  see  him, 
171 


THE    FAIR    IRISH. MAID 

for  she  had  liked  the  man  in  those  first  days  of  her 
stay  at  Cloyne  Hall,  and  what  she  had  seen  of 
mankind  since  those  days  had  tended  to  make  her 
more  lenient  toward  the  worthy  man's  virtues.  It 
really  seemed  a  thing  commendable  in  a  man  to 
have  some  stubborn  purpose  in  life,  to  be  a  zealot, 
even  to  weariness,  of  some  high  principle,  to  find 
other  interests  in  existence  than  the  cut  of  a  coat, 
the  choice  of  a  cook,  the  cast  of  a  card,  the  muddy 
joys  of  intoxication,  and  the  furtive  kisses  of  in- 
trigue. It  was,  to  be  sure,  a  thousand  pities  that 
Mr.  Rubie,  having  so  many  merits  to  recommend 
him,  should  dim  those  merits  by  being  not  a  little 
dull.  But  Grania  had  somewhat  forgotten  the  dull- 
ness in  the  interval  between  now  and  Cloyne  Hall; 
she  only  remembered  that  he  had  certain  human 
qualities  which  most  of  the  other  men  she  knew 
lacked,  and  were  glad  to  lack.  Therefore  Grania 
was  glad  to  meet  Mr.  Rubie. 

In  the  course  of  that  first  conversation  of  the 
renewed  intimacy  Mr.  Rubie,  with  an  effort  to  be 
jocose,  which  did  not  assort  very  well  with  his 
labored  speech  and  native  solemnity,  asked  Grania  if 
she  had  brought  any  of  her  friends  the  fairies  with 
her  from  Ireland.  Grania  smiled  and  shook  her 
head  as  she  pointed  to  the  crowd  about  them,  a 
glittering  crown  of  beautiful  women  and  dandies 
and  statesmen  and  soldiers. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "the  fairies  would  scarcely 
take  kindly  to  this  atmosphere.  If  you  were  to  ask 
172 


FEASTS    OF    THE    GODS 

me  for  statistics  now,  Mr.  Rubie,  I  should  say 
nothing  of  the  little  people,  but  I  could  tell  you 
everything  that  has  been  doing  at  Almack's." 

Mr.  Rubie,  who  had  faintly  hoped  to  rekindle  the 
fires  of  that  fantastic  conversation  on  the  Kerry 
hillside,  felt  a  trifle  disappointed.  "Don't  you  be- 
lieve in  the  fairies  any  more  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
that,  to  his  surprise,  sounded  reproachful.  What 
would  the  Clapham  coteries,  what  would  the  com- 
mitteemen,  his  colleagues,  think  of  him  if  they 
could  hear  him  now  ? 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  do,"  Grania  answered,  em- 
phatically. "But  this  is  never  the  place  for  them. 
All  these  people  are  so  stubbornly  alive,  so  eager 
for  pleasure,  and  so  stupid  in  their  pursuit  of  it,  that 
they  create  an  atmosphere  too  heavy  for  fairies  to 
breathe.  I  am  sure  you  understand  that,  don't  you  ?" 

Mr.  Rubie  assured  her  that  he  did,  and  would 
have  carried  on  the  conversation  much  longer,  but 
it  was  seldom  given  to  any  one  person  to  be  allowed 
to  monopolize  much  of  Crania's  society.  Others 
came  up,  and  he  presently  beat  a  retreat  with  a 
strange  and  unfamiliar  elation  swelling  his  honest 
breast.  From  thence  onward  he  devoted  himself, 
much  to  his  surprise,  and  somewhat  against  his  judg- 
ment, to  the  endeavor  to  haunt  places  where  he  might 
meet  Grania.  He  succeeded,  being  stubborn  and  de- 
termined, and  Grania  was  always  very  pleasant  when 
they  met;  and  now  she  had  asked  him  to  dinner,  and 
Mr.  Rubie  was  unreasonably  exultant  at  the  favor. 
173 


VI 

THE    GREAT  MR.    HERITAGE 

ON  the  morning  of  the  day  which  Grania  had 
set  apart  for  the  calm  of  her  family  dinner 
Mr.  reregrine  Fenny,  exquisitely  attired  and  out- 
wardly imperturbable,  however  fiercely  the  fox  of 
care  might  be  nibbling  at  his  vitals,  had  made  his 
usual  appearance  at  Ashford  House  and  was  seated 
before  the  stately  table  which  served  him  for  his 
secretarial  battle-field.  As  usual,  he  found  that 
there  was  abundance  of  work  waiting  for  him,  and 
as  usual  he  attacked  it  vigorously,  with  order  and 
with  method.  He  had  diminished  very  consider- 
ably the  huge  pile  of  letters  that  daily  came  to 
Grania,  valiantly  stamped  by  the  extravagant, 
warily  franked  by  the  practical,  and  delivered  by 
agent  or  by  hand  by  the  economical  or  the  needy. 
He  had  decisively  banished  the  numerous  and  un- 
trustworthy begging  letters  which  always  made  a 
large  part  of  the  morning's  business,.  Having 
briskly  despatched  this  part  of  his  task,  he  had  set 
aside  such  few  of  the  appeals  as  seemed  to  deserve 
some  consideration,  for  Grania  always  insisted  upon 
being  charitable  where  she  could  be  conscientiously 
174 


THE    GREAT    MR.  HERITAGE 

convinced  that  chanty  was  due,  and  Mr.  Fenny  was 
not  unwilling  to  aid  charity  when  it  could  be  aided 
at  no  loss  to  himself.  Already,  it  may  be  mentioned, 
the  peasantry  of  Cloyne  had  found  the  world  trans- 
formed for  them  from  a  place  of  misery  to  a  place 
of  smooth  content  by  the  magic  of  Crania's  gold. 
But  Mr.  Fenny  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  admin- 
istration of  Crania's  Irish  affairs,  and  it  is  not  ger- 
mane to  this  narrative. 

Mr.  Fenny  was  engaged  in  studying  with  the  eye 
of  a  strategist  the  various  cards  of  invitation  to 
festivities  of  all  kinds  for  the  coming  week  when  a 
servant  entered  the  room  bearing  a  card  upon  a 
golden  salver  and  offered  the  card  to  Mr.  Fenny. 
Mr.  Fenny  paused  in  his  work  with  the  air  of  a 
general  interrupted  in  the  planning  of  a  stratagem 
by  the  arrival  of  an  unexpected  despatch.  He  took 
the  card,  looked  at  it,  and  read  upon  the  pasteboard 
the  name  of  Mr.  Heritage.  He  smiled  faintly,  for 
the  name  was  familiar  and  evoked  no  disagreeable 
suggestion,  laid  the  card  upon  the  table  before  him, 
and  told  the  servant  to  show  Mr.  Heritage  in.  The 
servant  disappeared,  and  Mr.  Fenny  resumed  his 
labors  with  the  manner  of  one  to  whom  even  seconds 
were  precious.  A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened 
again  and  the  expected  Mr.  Heritage  made  his  ap- 
pearance. 

Mr.  Heritage  was  quite  an  important  person  in 
London.  Though  he  could  not  claim,  however  much 
he  might  have  liked  to  do  so,  to  be,  in  the  true 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

sense  of  the  cryptic  phrase,  in  society,  he  yet  had  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  society,  was  of  very  great  use 
to  society  in  ministering  to  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  its  many  pleasures,  and  he  accordingly  was 
tolerated  and  frequently  favored  by  society.  Mr. 
Heritage  was  the  manager  of  the  Rotundo  Theater, 
and  in  his  own  eyes  the  management  of  the  Rotundo 
Theater  was  the  most  delightful  office  holdable  in 
the  world.  If  you  had  questioned  him  he  would 
have  told  you  as  much,  and  assured  you,  expecting 
you  to  believe  him,  that  he  would  not  have  ex- 
changed it  for  the  position  of  the  Prince  Regent 
himself.  Mr.  Heritage  was  one  of  those  men  of 
business  into  the  vessel  of  whose  composition  a 
whimsical  destiny  had  not  been  content  to  pour  only 
the  strong  spirit  of  the  business  man,  but  had  chosen 
to  mingle  that  solid  liquor  with  some  seemingly  in- 
appropriate drops  of  a  finer  fluid,  drops  of  genius, 
poetry,  beauty- worship,  aspiration,  imagination, 
illumination,  fancy,  desire. 

The  result  of  the  blend  was  the  manager  of  the 
Rotundo  Theater,  a  shrewd,  keen  man,  somewhat 
vulgar  in  his  ways,  somewhat  vulgar  in  his  tastes, 
and  yet  behind  his  shrewdness  and  his  vulgarity 
dimly  conscious  of  fine  things  and  faintly  pricked 
by  fine  ambitions.  Had  he  been  less  shrewd  and 
less  vulgar  he  might  have  failed  to  make  the  Ro- 
tundo Theater  the  success  it  was,  but  undoubtedly 
those  dim,  half-conscious  dreamings  and  imagin- 
ings of  his  had  not  a  little  to  do  with  his  success. 
176 


THE    GREAT    MR.   HERITAGE 

For  undoubtedly  he  was  a  success,  and  people  came 
to  him  and  his  theater  and  spoke  of  him  and  his 
theater  with  an  enthusiasm  which  was  as  generous  as 
it  was  deserved.  In  person  he  was  short  and  stout, 
with  a  shining  face,  an  alert  manner  in  spite  of  his 
obesity,  and  small  bright  eyes  that  seemed  to  view 
everybody  as  a  possible  player,  and  to  take  for  his 
standard  of  judgment  the  figure  that  he  or  she  or 
they  would  cut  on  the  boards  of  his  theater. 

He  saluted  Mr.  Fenny,  who  rose,  and,  after  a 
cordial  handclasp,  courteously  motioned  him  to  a 
seat.  Mr.  Heritage  did  so,  and  then,  with  a  gesture 
which  was,  it  may  be,  not  undeliberately  dramatic, 
produced  a  paper  from  his  breast  coat-pocket, 
opened  it  with  that  elaboration  of  action  then  con- 
sidered essential  to  the  display  of  a  letter  on  the 
stage,  and  waved  it  before  Mr.  Fenny. 

"I  received,"  Mr.  Heritage  began,  "a  letter  from 
your  Irish  beauty.  In  it  she  does  me  the  honor  to 
ask  me  to  wait  upon  her  this  afternoon." 

Mr.  Fenny  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said;  "I  read  the 
letter." 

"  Do  you  know  what  she  wants  ?"  Mr.  Heritage 
asked;  and  then,  a  sudden  smile  puckering  his 
features  as  a  possible  though  hitherto  unconsidered 
answer  to  his  question  came  into  his  mind,  he  went 
on.  "You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  has 
written  a  play?  Begad!  that  wouldn't  be  at  all 
a  bad  idea.  A  play  by  'The  Fair  Irish  Maid* 
might  be  a  very  profitable  experiment," 
177 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Peregrine  shook  his  head  emphatically.  "Miss 
O'Hara,"  he  declared,  "has  no  time  for  writing 
plays,  I  assure  you,  though  I  have  no  doubt  that  if 
she  were  to  make  an  essay  in  the  field  of  drama 
she  would  acquit  herself  as  charmingly  in  that 
enterprise  as  in  everything  she  undertakes." 

"What  does  she  want,  then  ?"  Mr.  Heritage  per- 
sisted. He  was  a  little  annoyed  to  find  that  his 
sudden  guess  was  unsuccessful,  and  his  voice 'be- 
came a  trifle  peremptory.  It  was  part  of  Mr. 
Heritage's  attitude  toward  the  world  that  he  was 
always  pressed  for  time,  always  very  busy,  and  he 
enforced  this  attitude  when  anything  happened  to 
cross  him.  He  adopted  a  brusque,  incisive  method 
of  address  which  might  be  suited  to  My  Lord 
Wellesley  in  the  Peninsular,  but  sat  less  convincing- 
ly on  the  theatrical  manager. 

Again  Mr.  Fenny  shook  his  head.  "I  really  do 
not  know,"  he  protested,  with  entire  truth.  "  But 
you  need  not  be  long  in  the  dark.  I  will  let  her 
know  that  you  are  here,  and  she  will  no  doubt  tell 
you  for  herself." 

Mr.  Fenny  rose  and  pulled  the  bell  to  summon 
a  servant,  and  when  the  man  appeared  told  him  to 
let  his  mistress  know  that  Mr.  Heritage  was  waiting 
upon  her.  When  the  pair  were  alone  again  Heri- 
tage resumed  the  conversation  on  its  former  theme, 
for  his  curiosity  was  too  sedulous  to  be  checked. 

"I  had  the  privilege,"  he  said,  "of  meeting  the 
young  lady  the  other  night  at  Carlton  House,  where 
178 


THE    GREAT    MR.   HERITAGE 

I  was  arranging  some  characters  for  His  Highness." 
He  paused,  and  then  commented,  "She  is  very 
dashing." 

Mr.  Fenny  did  not  seem  altogether  to  agree  with 
him.  "My  dear  sir,"  he  declared,  "dashing  is 
not  the  word.  There  is  no  word  existing  in  the 
English  language,  so  far  as  the  English  language 
is  known  to  me" — and,  indeed,  Mr.  Fenny  plumed 
himself  on  his  curious  felicity  of  speech — "that 
can  properly  describe  her.  There  should  be  a  new 
and  wonderful  word,  some  burning  star,  some 
splendid  jewel  of  a  word  invented  to  do  her  justice. 
One  day  I  will  think  of  it,  and  wake  up  like  My 
Lord  Byron  to  find  myself  famous." 

Mr.  Heritage,  after  paying  the  tribute  of  a  gra- 
cious smile  to  the  elaborate  pleasantry  of  Mr.  Fenny, 
lowered  his  voice  slightly  and  leaned  a  little  forward. 
"Is  it  really  true,"  he  questioned,  "that  she  was 
once  a  peasant  girl  trotting  about  Kerry  with  bare 
feet  and  a  shawl  ?" 

Mr.  Fenny  denied  part  of  Mr.  Heritage's  sugges- 
tion. "She  was  never  a  peasant  girl,"  he  declared. 
"She  derives  from  a  good  old  Irish  family,  but  as 
poor  as  Methuselah — was  he  poor  ?  I  forget — be- 
cause of  their  creed  and  their  politics.  I  dare  say 
the  bare  feet  and  the  shawl  are  right  enough,  for  she 
hadn't  a  penny  piece  until  the  old  hunks  in  the 
American  colonies — I  beg  their  pardons,  I  mean  the 
United  States — left  her  a  fortune." 

Mr.  Heritage  raised  admiring  hands  as  if  he  were 
179 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

about  to  applaud  some  successful  spectacle.  "What 
an  astonishing  story  it  all  is!"  he  declared.  "There 
might  be  the  chance  for  a  piece  in  it.  I  must  talk 
to  one  of  my  authors." 

"I  don't  think  Miss  O'Hara  would  greatly  care 
for  it,"  Mr.  Fenny  answered.  "But  she  undoubt- 
edly is  the  richest  young  woman  in  England  at  this 
present." 

Mr.  Heritage  seemed  reluctant  to  surrender  his 
idea  for  the  proposed  play.  "Where  did  she  get 
her  grand  manner  from?"  he  asked.  "To  see  her 
as  I  saw  her  the  other  night  you  would  think  she  had 
been  used  to  a  prince's  drawing-room  all  her  life. 
She  takes  the  stage  better  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
seen." 

"I  think  she  had  the  grand  manner  to  start  with," 
Mr.  Fenny  answered.  "Her  dignity  and  simplicity 
are  things  you  must  inherit;  you  can't  acquire.  But 
the  native  diamond  has  been  polished  by  clever 
jewelers." 

Mr.  Fenny  proceeded  to  explain  to  his  hearer  the 
process  by  which  Lord  and  Lady  Cloyne  had  enabled 
the  girl  from  Kerry  to  carry  herself  so  well.  He 
told  him  of  the  season  in  Dublin,  of  the  great  house 
in  Stephen's  Green,  where  Miss  O'Hara  first 
learned  to  preside  and  to  entertain  the  fashionable 
world.  He  told  him  of  the  later  visit  to  Paris,  where 
the  girl  again  played  the  hostess  in  a  stately  mansion, 
in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  which  had  seen  many 
of  its  noblest  leave  it  for  the  prison  and  the  guillo- 
180 


THE    GREAT    MR.  HERITAGE 

tine,  and  which  an  impoverished  heir,  newly  re- 
stored to  his  own,  was  glad  to  let  to  the  Irish  beauty. 
He  told  how  she  was  presented  to  His  Majesty  King 
Louis  the  Eighteenth,  and  how  she  greatly  annoyed 
that  monarch  by  displaying  some  injudicious  en- 
thusiasm for  the  Emperor  Napoleon,  then  reigning 
reluctantly  in  obscurity  as  the  Emperor  of  Elba. 
The  annoyed  king  had  said  to  her,  with  as  much 
acrimony  as  it  was  possible  for  a  restored  Bourbon 
to  display  in  the  presence  of  a  pretty  woman,  that  he 
thought  all  English  people  disliked  Bonaparte. 

"Your  Majesty/*  the  girl  answered,  not  in  the 
least  daunted  by  the  royal  displeasure,  "I  am  not 
English,  but  Irish,  and  General  Bonaparte  prom- 
ised to  be  our  friend." 

Lady  Cloyne,  aghast  at  Crania's  audacity,  hur- 
ried the  girl  away;  but  Grania  declined  to  express 
any  regret  for  what  she  had  said  or  to  share  in 
Lady  Cloyne's  congratulations  on  the  fact  that  they 
were  leaving  Paris  so  soon  that  they  could  scarcely 
be  made  to  feel  socially  the  effects  of  the  king's  dis- 
pleasure. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  king's  displeasure 
would  have  had  little  effect  as  against  the  wealth  of 
Grania  upon  Parisian  society.  It  was  in  connection 
with  this  incident  that  Grania  first  began  to  show 
what  afterward  proved  that  she  intended  to  be  her 
own  mistress  and  not  the  obedient  puppet  of  my 
lady.  Thus  tempered  and  molded  in  the  fashions 
and  the  finesses  of  Dublin  and  of  Paris,  Grania  was 
carried,  a  perfect  work  of  art,  to  London,  where  she 

13  181 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

instantly  swam  into  success.  That  Mr.  Heritage 
knew  as  well  as  Mr.  Fenny. 

"He  will  be  a  fortunate  man  who  marries  her," 
Mr.  Heritage  observed,  and  mused  upon  the  won- 
derful work  the  manager  of  a  great  theater  could  do 
for  dramatic  art  if  he  were  fortunate  enough  to  win 
the  hand  and  heart  of  a  lady  who  commanded  such 
a  fortune.  But  with  all  his  good  opinion  of  him- 
self, Mr.  Heritage  had  no  thought  of  advancing  his 
claims.  Mr.  Penny's  handsome  face  displayed  no 
sign  of  the  regret  that  he  felt  that  he  was  not 
destined  to  be  the  fortunate  man. 

"Between  ourselves,"  he  said,  "I  think  it  is  pretty 
well  understood  that  'The  Fair  Irish  Maid'  is  to 
marry  Lord  Cloyne's  younger  brother,  Captain 
Curtius." 

Mr.  Heritage  smiled  sourly.  "A  very  excellent  ar- 
rangement," he  said,  dryly,  "for  Captain  Curtius." 

"You  suggest — "  Fenny  questioned  slily  with  a 
lifted  eyebrow. 

Heritage  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Captain  Cur- 
tius," he  said,  acidly,  thinking  perhaps  how  much 
better  a  match  he  could  suggest  if  there  were  likely 
to  be  the  faintest  use  in  making  the  suggestion,  "is 
a  fine  gentleman  with  an  inordinate  share  of  a  fine 
gentleman's  vices.  He  is  never  sober,  though  he 
never  seems  drunk.  He  keeps  a  colony  of  women 
at  Bagshot.  Were  he  King  Solomon,  he  would  beg- 
gar himself  at  play.  If  you  were  a  father  or  brother, 
would  you  chqose  him  for  your  daughter  or  sister  ?" 
182 


THE    GREAT    MR.  HERITAGE 

Mr.  Fenny  burst  into  a  fit  of  hearty  laughter  at 
the  extravagance  of  morality  suddenly  manifested 
by  Mr.  Heritage,  who  was  generally  understood  to 
pique  himself  upon  being  as  thorough  a  man  of  the 
world  as  any  of  the  dandies. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "you  are  as  moral 
as  Socrates.  I  have  no  daughter,  at  least  in  the 
sense  you  mean,  and  my  sisters  are  frumps,  who 
might  marry  the  devil  for  all  I  care.  I  am  agog 
for  the  marriage,  for  I  get  a  cool  thousand  if  it 
comes  off."  That  was  indeed  the  precise  sum 
which  My  Lord  Cloyne  had  promised  his  young 
friend  if  he  refrained  from  any  interference  with 
his  lordship's  plans  and  aided  and  abetted  them  as 
artfully  as  he  could. 

Mr.  Heritage  laughed.  "Really,  Mr.  Fenny," 
he  protested,  "I  must  get  one  of  our  authors  to 
write  a  modish  comedy  and  put  you  into  the  list 
of  characters.  Your  cynicism  is  magnificent." 

"It  seems  so  to  you,  no  doubt,"  Fenny  answered, 
with  suave  impertinence;  "to  me  it  is  just  ordinary 
intelligence." 

Mr.  Heritage  might  have  resented  the  manner 
of  Mr.  Fenny's  speech,  but  at  that  moment  the  door 
opened  and  Grania  came  into  the  room. 


VII 

A    POSSIBLE    CLUE 

BOTH  men  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  Mr.  Heri- 
tage made  the  lady  a  profound  bow.  His 
theatrical  eye  appreciated  her  loveliness  again  as 
he  had  appreciated  it  before  on  the  occasion  at 
Carlton  House,  appreciated  also  the  beauty  of  her 
attire.  He  reflected  with  a  mental  sigh  that  he  could 
not  get  his  actresses  to  dress  as  well  at  that,  nor 
to  carry  their  wear  so  becomingly. 

"Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  Grania  said,  as  she 
advanced  down  the  room  with  a  step  as  easy  over 
the  velvet  carpet  as  ever  over  the  Kerry  grass. 
She  gave  Mr.  Heritage  her  hand,  which  he  kissed 
ceremoniously,  with  the  studied  grace  of  one  that 
was  profoundly  aware  of  the  importance  of  deport- 
ment. She  gave  a  glance  to  Fenny,  which  that  in- 
telligent gentleman  rightly  interpreted  to  intimate 
dismissal. 

Mr.  Fenny  quietly  rose,  quietly  disappeared 
from  the  room,  and  Grania,  requesting  Mr.  Heritage 
to  be  seated  again,  placed  herself  opposite  to  him. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  coming,  Mr. 
Heritage/'  she  said.  "I  hope  you  did  not  think 
184 


A    POSSIBLE    CLUE 

my  request  very  unceremonious;  but  I  earnestly 
desired  a  little  private  talk  with  you." 

Mr.  Heritage  noted  with  approval  the  clear  sweet- 
ness of  her  speech,  the  gracious  ease  and  simple 
dignity  of  her  bearing,  the  tranquillity  which  ac- 
cepted so  readily  the  state  of  pomp  with  which 
she  was  surrounded,  and  again  he  found  himself 
wishing  that  he  could  drill  some  of  his  player- 
women  to  carry  themselves  so  before  the  footlights. 
He  inclined  toward  her  anew  in  polite  salutation. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "I  am  your  humble  servant 
to  command,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  I  am 
heartily  delighted  if  I  may  be  of  any  use  to  you." 

Grania  looked  at  him  wistfully.  "Do  you,"  she 
asked,  "know  anything  of  the  whereabouts  of  a 
man  named  Dennis  Tirowen  ?" 

Mr.  Heritage  shook  his  head,  and  it  was  plain 
from  the  blank  expression  of  his  face  that  Crania's 
question  stirred  no  string  of  his  memory.  "No, 
indeed,  madam,"  he  said;  "I  am  sure  that  I  do 
not  know  any  one  of  that  name,  and  I  do  not  think 
that  I  have  ever  heard  the  name  before." 

"Oh,  surely,  surely,"  Grania  insisted,  for  she 
had  pinned  her  faith  to  the  probability  that  Mr. 
Heritage  would  be  able  to  afford  her  a  clue  to  her 
lost  lover.  "Mr.  Dennis  Tirowen  came  to  London 
some  time  ago  from  Ireland.  I  believe  that  he  was 
going  to  get  into  communication  with  you,  for  he 
had  a  play  which  he  wished  to  submit  to  the  Lon- 
don managers,  and  naturally  you  would  be  the 
185 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

first  he  would  approach.     Do  you  remember  any- 
thing of  the  matter  now  ?" 

Mr.  Heritage  shook  his  head.  He  was  touched 
and  amused  by  the  simplicity  implied  in  Crania's 
question.  "  A  play !  my  dear  madam,"  he  protested, 
feeling  indeed  a  little  shocked  at  Crania's  mani- 
fest ignorance  of  the  possibilities  of  his  office. 
"Are  you  aware  that  at  the  Rotundo  Theater  we 
are  in  the  habit  of  receiving  as  many  as  ten  or 
twelve  plays  a  week  ?  How  could  a  poor  manager 
possibly  carry  in  his  memory  the  names  of  so  many 
aspirants  for  laurels  ?" 

Crania  looked  very  disappointed.  "Mr.  Tiro- 
wen  was  a  friend  of  mine,"  she  said,  sadly,  "a  very 
great  friend."  Mr.  Heritage  scented  romance,  and 
his  respectful  silence  sought  also  to  suggest  sym- 
pathy as  Crania  continued.  "He  left  Ireland," 
she  said,  "some  months  ago  to  come  to  London  in 
the  hopes  of  making  his  fortune.  He  had  written 
a  play  on  which  he  built  great  hopes.  He  had  com- 
posed some  music,  too,  which  was  to  win  him 
favor.  He  went  away  very  hopeful.  He  was  to 
have  written  to  me,  but  he  did  not  write.  Since 
the  day  that  I  said  good-by  to  him  I  have  never 
heard  either  from  or  of  him.  When  I  came  to 
London  I  made  inquiries,  such  inquiries  as  I  could, 
with  the  assistance  of  my  lawyer,  but  so  far  they 
have  all  come  to  nothing.  Nobody  seems  to  know 
anything  of  my  friend.  He  has  vanished  com- 
pletely, without  a  sound,  without  a  sign." 
186 


A    POSSIBLE    CLUE 

Mr.  Heritage  was  touched  by  the  pathos  that  un- 
derlay Crania's  speech.  "You  don't  fear,"  he 
began,  hesitatingly,  "that  anything  may  have  hap- 
pened to  him  ?"  He  stopped  for  a  second,  and  then 
went  on  in  a  lowered  voice.  "You  don't  apprehend 
that  he  may  be  dead  ?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  Grania  answered,  vehemently.  " I 
am  sure  he  is  alive.  I  should  know  if  he  were  dead, 
and  I  know  he  is  alive — I  know  it,  I  know  it." 

"Then,"  Mr.  Heritage  suggested,  "he  may  have 
had  an  accident,  he  may  be  sick,  lying  at  this  mo- 
ment in  some  hospital." 

"We  have  tried  all  the  hospitals,"  Grania  replied. 
"My  friend  is  in  no  one  of  them." 

"  I  do  not  exactly  like  to  suggest  it,"  Mr.  Heritage 
said,  "but  perhaps  this  young  gentleman — through 
no  fault  of  his  own,  of  course,  through  no  fault  of  his 
own — may  have  got  into  some  trouble  with  the  law 
which  may  have  had  the  result  of  a  temporary 
seclusion." 

Grania  interrupted  him.  "We  have  tried  all  the 
prisons,"  she  said,  composedly.  She  was  too  fa- 
miliar with  the  thought  of  Irishmen  as  Englishmen's 
prisoners  to  be  hurt  by  Mr.  Heritage's  suggestion. 
"We  have  tried  all  likely  clues.  When  I  saw  you 
the  other  night  at  Carlton  House  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  me  that  you  might  be  able  to  help  me. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  it  sooner." 

Mr.  Heritage  admired  dramatically  the  young 
lady  of  fortune  who  in  her  hour  of  glory  could  seek 
187 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

so  eagerly  and  so  persistently  for  one  of  the  friends 
of  her  days  of  poverty. 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  he  said,  sincerely,  "but 
I  really  cannot  in  the  least  recall  the  name  you 
mention.  However,  I  will  make  inquiries  at  the 
stage-door  and  I  will  ask  some  of  my  authors  if  they 
know  any  one  of  that  name.  Let  me  see,  what 
exactly  was  the  name  ?" 

Grania  gave  him  the  name — Dennis  Tirowen 
— and  Mr.  Heritage  wrote  the  name  down  in  a  note- 
book which  he  carried.  When  this  was  done  there 
was  a  slight  pause  and  then  Mr.  Heritage  made  as 
if  to  take  his  leave,  but  Grania  suddenly  stayed  him. 

"Wait,  please,"  she  said.  "If  the  play  had  been 
sent  to  you  it  would  probably  be  in  the  theater." 

"It  probably  would,  madam,"  Mr.  Heritage  an- 
swered, "if  it  had  not  been  sent  back  to  the  author." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Grania,  "it  would  probably 
carry  the  address  of  the  author." 

"It  probably  would,"  Mr.  Heritage  agreed  again. 
"I  will  look  through  some  of  our  recent  acquisitions 
and  see  if  any  one  of  them  carries  that  name,  though 
beginners  in  dramatic  authorship  very  often  send  us 
their  wares  under  a  false  bill  of  lading.  They 
choose  to  make  their  first  venture  under  a  name 
which  is  not  their  own,  and  in  that  case  I  might  even 
have  the  play  in  my  possession  and  not  be  able  to 
assure  myself  of  the  fact." 

"In  that  case,"  Grania  said,  eagerly,  "it  would 
help  you,  would  it  not,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  some- 
188 


A    POSSIBLE    CLUE 

thing  of  the  subject  of  the  play,  with  which  I  happen 
to  be  acquainted  ?" 

Mr.  Heritage  nodded  sagaciously.  "That  cer- 
tainly would  be  a  help,"  he  said.  He  was  marveling 
inwardly  to  find  himself  so  astonishingly  complai- 
sant. Had  it  been  foretold  to  him  a  few  days  earlier 
that  he  would  really  and  readily  consent  at  the 
request  of  a  stranger  to  take  the  trouble  to  hunt  for 
a  play  by  an  unknown  man  he  would  have  laughed 
the  prophecy  to  scorn.  Yet  here  he  was  preparing 
to  do  the  very  thing,  only  the  stranger  happened  to 
be  the  loveliest,  richest,  and  most  popular  young 
woman  in  all  London. 

Hurriedly  Grania  gave  him  an  account  of  the 
strange  and  striking  story  which  Dennis  Tirowen 
had  chosen  for  his  play,  the  story  of  the  ancient  city 
buried  by  a  spell  under  the  waters  of  the  Irish  Sea, 
and  of  the  breaking  of  the  spell  by  the  devotion  and 
daring  of  a  heroic  lover.  Mr.  Heritage,  listening 
and  watching  with  admiration  the  animated  face 
of  the  narrator,  was  good  enough  to  assure  her  that 
if  the  play  at  all  corresponded  to  her  description  it 
seemed  to  have  some  good  stuff  in  it.  Therewith 
he  made  again  to  take  his  leave,  promising  to  begin 
his  researches  immediately,  and  to  let  Grania  know 
if  those  researches  were  rewarded  with  success. 
Again  Grania  delayed  his  departure  to  request  that 
he  would  make  one  at  her  family  dinner  party  that 
evening,  when  he  could  let  her  know  the  result  of  his 
search.  Mr.  Heritage  begged  to  be  excused.  He 
189 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

had  already  a  dinner  engagement,  but  if  Miss 
O'Hara  would  permit  him  he  would  call  after  dinner 
and  drink  a  cup  of  coffee  while  he  jmade  his  report. 
Permission  being  gladly  given,  Mr.  Heritage  with- 
drew. 


VIII 

MUSIC  THE   FOOD   OF   LOVE 

THE  interview  with  Mr.  Heritage  had,  for  all 
it  was  a  short  interview,  been  long  enough  to 
bridge  over  the  transition  from  the  chill  February 
afternoon  to  the  chill  February  evening.  When 
Grania  had  rung  for  a  servant  to  conduct  Mr.  Her- 
itage to  the  hall  the  light  in  the  great  room  had 
dimmed  to  a  twilight,  through  which  the  statues  and 
pictures  loomed  ghostly.  When  Mr.  Heritage  had 
been  ushered  forth  into  the  square,  which  was  white 
with  the  snow  that  was  still  falling,  the  servant  re- 
turned, lighted  candles,  curtained  windows,  and  re- 
plenished the  waning  fire.  When  he  withdrew  at 
the  end  of  his  ministrations  the  great  room  glowed 
*warm  and  cheerful  in  effective  contrast  with  the 
snow-white  world  outside. 

When  Grania  found  herself  alone  she  began  to 
pace  the  room  restlessly.  She  had  been  so  long 
used  to  the  free  life  in  the  open  air  that  even  still 
after  her  experience  of  three  great  cities  the  restraint 
of  town  ways  and  houses  irked  her,  and  she  missed 
the  liberal  exercise  that  had  been  her  familiar  cus- 
tom in  the  days  that  seemed  so  far  away  now.  She 
191 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

often  wished  to  escape  from  her  strange  surround- 
ings, from  the  vast  rooms,  with  their  splendid  furni- 
ture and  gleaming  marble  and  glowing  canvases, 
to  the  soft  green  turf  and  the  soft  blue  skies  of  her 
beloved  kingdom  of  Kerry.  It  was  not  that  she  had 
learned  actually  to  dislike  the  new  life,  which  still 
had,  in  spite  of  all  that  she  had  seen  and  done,  so 
much  of  novelty  to  offer  her.  Her  youth  was  ready 
to  be  amused,  and  amusement  in  magnificent  excess 
had  been  offered  to  her  and  still  was  offered  to  her 
from  all  sides.  With  a  shrewdness  as  sharp  as  that 
of  the  peasants  with  whom  her  youth  had  been 
passed,  she  appreciated  very  clearly  the  advantages 
wealth  had  brought  to  her. 

All  the  processes,  the  Dublin  process,  the  Paris 
process,  the  London  process,  that  had  finished  by 
making  her  into  a  fine  lady  of  the  most  approved 
pattern  of  a  society  critical  to  intolerance,  had  af- 
forded her  interest  and  entertainment.  She  knew 
that  she  had  triumphed,  and  she  enjoyed  her 
triumph.  She  was  able  whimsically  to  enjoy  it  two- 
fold, in  the  first  place  for  its  own  sake  and  for  her 
own  sake  and  the  straightforward  pleasure  it  gave 
her,  and  in  the  second  place  as  a  spectator  of  her 
own  enjoyment  and  the  gradual  change  in  her  bear- 
ing. But  she  had  now  lived  in  three  capitals  and 
mixed  on  equal  terms  in  the  best  society  of  each,  and 
the  game  had  lost  much  of  its  freshness.  Her  na- 
tive wit  had  enabled  her  very  clearly  to  read  the 
characters  of  the  men  and  women  with  whom  she 
192 


MUSIC    THE    FOOD    OF    LOVE 

came  in  contact,  and  she  deduced  swiftly  and  ac- 
curately the  real  natures  which  were  hidden  by  the 
smooth  and  smiling  exteriors  of  polite  men  and 
fashionable  women,  unmasking,  as  it  were,  with  a 
smile  the  red  savagery,  the  raw  ferocity  that  pos- 
tured so  urbanely.  She  would  certainly  not  have 
been  willing,  had  the  choice  been  offered  to  her  to 
surrender  the  wealth  which  had  come  to  her  so 
unexpectedly,  for  it  afforded  her  the  means  of  doing 
a  vast  amount  of  good  works  with  which  this 
chronicle  has  no  concern,  but  she  would  scarcely 
have  cared  to  retain  it  even  with  that  advantage  if 
it  entailed  with  it  the  necessity  always  to  live  the 
idle,  aimless  life  that  she  had  known  since  she  came 
under  the  care  of  Lord  and  Lady  Cloyne. 

Yet  if  she  was  sated  she  was  not  resentful.  For 
the  time  that  idle  life  had  served  a  useful  purpose. 
It  had  helped  to  relieve  her  mind  from  the  strain  of 
its  great  anxiety  and  forcibly  prevented  her  from 
brooding  over  her  protracted  disappointment.  It 
was  with  such  thoughts  as  these  wistfully  reviewing 
the  past  and  hoping  eagerly  for  the  future  that 
Grania  paced  restlessly  up  and  down.  She  had 
given  orders  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed,  and 
she  knew  that  her  evening  hour  of  reserve  would 
be  respected  by  all  in  Ashford  House.  Outside  the 
wintry  wind  grew  shriller,  whipping  the  great  snow- 
flakes  into  drifts  that  deadened  the  footsteps  of  the 
few  pedestrians,  the  rumbling  of  the  few  carnages 
that  disturbed  the  quiet  of  St.  James's  Square.  In- 
193 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

side  the  fire  flamed  nobly  on  the  great  hearth  as  on 
a  very  altar  to  the  domestic  god  of  comfort.  The 
light  from  great  wax  candles  illuminated  the  thou- 
sand lovelinesses  the  spacious  place  contained,  and 
Grania,  loveliest  of  them  all,  moving,  now  swiftly, 
now  slowly,  along  the  entire  length  of  the  room  like 
some  exquisite  wild  beast  imprisoned  in  a  gilded 
cage. 

All  of  a  sudden  Grania  stood  still,  with  her  hands 
upon  her  breast  and  her  head  bent  forward  eager- 
ly. Standing  so,  she  seemed  anew  like  some  beau- 
tiful wild  beast,  but  this  time  like  some  swift  hunt- 
ing animal  stiffened  into  immobility  by  some 
swiftly  discerned  presage  of  chase.  And  while  she 
stood  so,  tense  and  expectant,  the  sound  that  had 
struck  her  unprepared  senses  swelled  in  volume, 
note  following  note  with  piteous  insistance  of  ap- 
peal. In  the  first  few  seconds  of  her  listening  won- 
der Grania  doubted  whether  she  were  dreamer  or 
waker,  asking  herself,  so  far  as  her  startled  reason 
had  time  for  self-question,  whether  she  really  heard 
such  sounds  or  only  fancied,  madly,  that  she  heard 
them. 

Outside  in  the  quiet  of  the  snow-mufHed  square 
some  one  had  broken  the  silence  with  music,  some 
one  down  there  was  playing  on  a  fiddle  a  plaintive 
air  in  a  minor  key.  With  the  first  thrills  that 
quivered  from  the  fiddle-strings  all  that  was  about 
her,  the  gorgeous  room,  the  great  house,  the  Lon- 
don square,  London  itself,  and  all  its  wonders  and 
194 


MUSIC    THE    FOOD    OF    LOVE 

splendors  and  woes  and  sins,  seemed  to  drift  away 
like  a  drifting  mist,  and  in  their  stead  Grania  saw 
the  rich  greenness  of  the  Kerry  headland  and  the 
whiteness  of  the  high  Round  Tower,  snuffed  the 
smell  of  the  turf-smoke  on  the  air,  heard  the  lap- 
ping of  water,  the  lowing  of  kine,  the  laughter  of 
the  village  children.  There  were  no  fine  shoes 
upon  her  feet,  no  silk  stockings  upon  her  legs,  no 
fine  linen  next  her  skin,  no  fine  clothes  upon  her 
body.  Her  bare  feet  trod  the  thick  grass,  her  legs 
were  bare  under  her  peasant's  kirtle,  her  unfettered 
hair  was  free  for  the  kisses  of  the  Irish  wind.  And 
all  this  metamorphosis  because  somebody  in  the 
square  was  playing  a  tune  on  a  fiddle. 

At  the  first  moment  Grania  had  been  too  en- 
chanted to  wonder.  She  heard  the  air,  and  she 
surrendered  to  its  spell  and  welcomed  Ireland  with 
wide  arms.  She  floated,  unresisting,  on  the  flood 
of  memories;  she  seemed  to  lie  and  drift  as  she  had 
so  often  lain  and  drifted  in  the  cool  waters  of 
Cloyne  Bay,  yielding  herself  wholly  to  the  com- 
mand of  the  waves,  a  willing  victim  to  the  influence 
of  sky  and  sea. 

Then  swift  upon  the  surrender  came  question. 
Had  her  happy  ears  truly  heard  those  strange,  sweet 
notes,  or  was  the  wasting  hunger  of  her  mind  cheat- 
ing her  with  a  dear  hallucination  ?  She  stood  very 
still,  very  rigid,  her  hands  pressed  against  her 
bosom,  listening  intently. 

The  tune  continued,  the  tune  was  real,  the  tune 
195 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

was  true.  The  Soul  of  Erin  sang  and  sobbed  and 
sighed  below  there  in  the  hollow  formed  by  the 
square  of  the  great  houses.  The  misty  gods  brooded 
over  the  mountains,  and  the  mighty  heroes  tramped 
and  battled  in  the  plains;  the  chivalry  of  the 
Red  Branch  rallied  around  their  chief;  the  wise 
and  the  good,  the  valiant  and  the  handsome,  sat 
together  in  council  on  the  Hill  of  Tara;  the  in- 
vaders skimmed  the  seas — Dane,  Saxon,  Norman; 
the  earth  trembled  beneath  the  thunder  of  bloody 
wars;  imps  and  fairies  skipped  on  green  and  in  ring; 
the  gray  banshees  wailed  for  the  passing  of  the 
famous;  the  pooka  raced  on  his  unearthly  course 
with  fiery  eyes  and  flowing  mane;  the  leprechaun 
hammered  away,  absorbed  in  his  cobbling;  from 
the  sea  the  song  of  the  merrow  rose  like  an  in- 
cantation. All  that  she  had  heard  before  she 
heard  again:  the  pulsing  of  Boyne  River  running 
red  with  slaughter,  the  wail  of  the  Wild  Geese,  the 
taunt  and  threat  of  "Croppies,  Lie  Down!"  an- 
swered by  the  anguish  and  the  courage  of  "The 
Wearing  of  the  Green."  The  Soul  of  Erin,  the 
Soul  of  Erin,  the  Soul  of  Erin! 

It  seemed  to  Grania  that  she  lived  long  years  of 
life  between  the  time  when  she  first  heard  the 
sound  of  the  fiddling  and  the  time,  some  few  sec- 
onds later,  when  she  knew  for  certain  that  her 
senses  were  not  cheating  her,  that  there  really  and 
truly  was  some  one  in  the  square  that  was  playing 
the  air,  the  some  one  that  could  only  be  the  one. 
196 


MUSIC    THE    FOOD    OF    LOVE 

Swiftly  she  ran  to  the  great  windows  that  gave 
upon  the  square,  fiercely  she  pulled  apart  the 
heavy  curtains  that  hid  from  her  the  outer  world, 
eagerly  she  peered  through  the  glass  into  the  white 
darkness  of  the  square  below.  All  the  open  space 
was  carpeted  with  snow,  and  snow  was  falling 
steadily  in  great  flakes  and  flying  like  wild  feathers 
as  it  fell  before  the  fretful  February  wind.  The 
square  seemed  deserted  except  for  one  figure,  show- 
ing very  black  against  the  pallor  of  the  snow,  the 
figure  of  a  man  that  was  shuffling  slowly  across  the 
drifts  and  plying  his  bow  and  fiddle  as  he  went. 
He  was  moving  from  west  to  east,  coming  toward 
Ashford  House  from  the  direction  of  King  Street. 
By  now  he  was  about  opposite  York  Street,  and 
still  his  slow  course  continued,  and  still  his  steady 
bow  rose  and  fell,  discoursing  dreams  and  wonders. 
The  whole  scene  made  a  very  vivid  picture,  strange- 
ly pathetic,  the  gaunt  houses  making  a  black  pali- 
sade around  that  staring  field  of  snow,  and  on  that 
field  of  snow  the  solitary  figure  of  the  musician. 

14 


IX 

MOODY    FOOD 

THE  playing  figure  moved  slowly,  steadily, 
through  the  flying  flakes,  and  the  strings  of 
the  fiddle  laughed  and  wailed  with  the  Soul  of  Erin. 
Grania  leaned  out  into  the  wintry  night.  "  Dennis !" 
she  cried  again  and  again,  "Dennis!"  with  a  passion 
of  joy,  with  a  passion  of  entreaty.  The  riddling 
figure  moved  over  the  snow  at  the  same  pace  as  be- 
fore. If  the  cry  came  to  his  ears  it  did  not  quicken 
his  pace.  Then  Grania  turned  from  the  window, 
rushed  across  the  room  and  out  of  the  door  and  down 
the  great  staircase  at  headlong  speed.  The  tall 
footmen  in  the  hall,  basking  sleekly  by  the  com- 
fortable fireplace,  were  astonished  out  of  all  de- 
corum by  the  sight  of  the  young  lady,  their  mistress, 
dashing  past  them  in  all  her  indoor  finery,  tugging 
the  hall  door  open  and  plunging  into  the  street. 
So  greatly  were  they  startled  out  of  all  customary 
observance  that  they  actually  remained  seated  while 
their  mistress  swept  past  them,  and  only  rose  to  their 
feet  as  the  chill  air  streaming  through  the  open 
door  checked  the  stupor  of  their  amazement  and 
permitted  them  to  rise. 

198 


MOODY    FOOD 

John  looked  at  Thomas  with  a  questioning  gaze, 
to  which  Thomas  replied  by  an  answering  stare  of 
blank  astonishment.  They  were  too  well-bred  to 
shift  from  their  positions  to  advance  to  the  open 
door  and  peer  after  the  vanished  young  lady. 
Theirs  was  a  duty,  like  the  duty  of  the  Roman  sen- 
tinel, to  remain  at  the  allotted  post.  Therefore  they 
stood,  fixed  and  gigantic,  outwardly  immovable, 
inwardly  wondering  what  had  happened  and  what 
would  happen  next.  What  did  happen  was  even 
more  profoundly  upheaving,  revolutionary,  and 
destructive  to  the  cosmic  order  as  conceived  by  foot- 
men than  what  had  happened.  The  young  lady, 
their  mistress,  returned  through  the  open  door  with 
the  flakes  of  the  February  snow  melting  on  her 
clothes  and  the  rudeness  of  the  February  wind 
made  evident  in  her  disheveled  hair.  But  she  did 
not  return  alone.  She  was  clinging,  and  clinging 
fondly,  to  the  arm  of  a  ragged  man,  a  fellow  that 
looked  like  a  tramp  or  a  scarecrow,  and  one,  too, 
that  carried  a  bow  and  fiddle  sticking  from  the 
pocket  of  his  tattered  coat.  The  man  was  dirty; 
the  man  was  unkempt;  he  might  have  been  a  cross- 
ing-sweeper. The  austere  correctness  of  John,  the 
austere  correctness  of  Thomas,  judged  and  summed 
him  in  one  word — disreputable.  But  before  their 
astonished  eyes,  acting  without  the  slightest  appear- 
ance of  consciousness  of  their  presence  or  regard  for 
their  shocked  feelings,  the  rich  Miss  O'Hara  clung  to 
this  ragged  rascal,  and  actually  led  him,  tenderly 
199 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

and  fondly,  up  the  great  stairway  and  out  of  their 
horrified  sight.  But  they  knew  that  she  had  con- 
ducted her  impossible  guest  into  the  gold  drawing- 
room,  where  she  had  passed  her  afternoon,  for  they 
could  hear  the  sound  of  the  door  as  she  closed  it 
behind  her.  Then  John  leaned  toward  Thomas, 
and  Thomas  declined  toward  John,  and  the  mag- 
nificent fellows  conversed  in  awed  whispers. 

Grania  was  as  ignorant  of  as  she  was  indifferent  to 
the  resplendent  witnesses  of  her  escapade.  Her  brain 
whirled  with  wonder,  her  heart  drummed  with  joy; 
she  had  found  her  lover  again,  a  miracle  had  given 
him  back  to  her.  It  was  regrettable  for  the  lovers 
of  the  unexpected  that  there  was  no  one  of  their 
number  present  in  St.  James's  Square  on  that  snowy 
evening  to  witness  the  sight  of  a  young  and  beautiful 
girl,  all  besilked  and  bejeweled,  racing  bareheaded 
through  the  snow  to  fling  herself,  with  little  choking 
cries  of  joy,  into  the  arms  of  one  that  seemed  to  be  a 
singularly  dilapidated  specimen  of  the  vagrant 
musician  and  beggar.  But  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather  had  kept  the  square  clean  of  visitors,  and 
the  meeting  between  Grania  and  Dennis  was  seen 
only  by  themselves.  Little  was  said,  that  little 
chiefly  by  Grania,  and  consisting  of  peremptory 
commands  to  the  vagabond  that  he  must  imme- 
diately accompany  her  to  the  shelter  of  Ashford 
House.  So  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid"  drew  with  her 
her  beloved  prisoner,  though  that  prisoner  seemed  not 
a  little  reluctant  to  obey  and  not  a  little  sullen  under 

200 


MOODY    FOOD 

the  sweet  compulsion.  What  would  not  my  Lord 
Coleraine  or  Mr.  Redacre  or  Captain  Morris  or 
Mr.  Averill  have  given  to  see  that  sight! 

Mr.  Bowley,  of  The  Scourge,  and  Mr.  Shadd,  of 
The  Whistle,  would  also  have  given  much  to  see  that 
sight,  but  in  a  sense  they  as  good  as  saw  it,  though 
it  cost  them  money  to  show  as  much.  For  honest 
John  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Bowley' s  and  honest 
Thomas  was  a  friend  of  Mr.  Shadd's,  and  the  worthy 
pair  of  menials  had  gained  many  a  guinea  from  the 
worthy  pair  of  journalists  for  the  scraps  they  were 
able  to  carry  from  the  banquets  of  fashion  to  be 
hashed  and  spiced  and  served  up  piping  hot  in  the 
columns  of  the  popular  journals.  Bowley  did  his 
cooking  one  way;  Shadd  his  in  another;  both 
pleased  and  piqued  their  public;  neither  wasted 
the  guineas  they  gave  to  the  gentlemen's  gentlemen 
and  ladies'  ladies,  and  their  kind.  Bowley  and 
Shadd,  John  and  Thomas,  were  in  luck's  way  this 
night. 

If  Grania  had  had  time  to  think  any  other 
thoughts  than  those  of  joy  and  thankfulness  be- 
yond all  power  of  human  speech  to  interpret  at 
having  found  her  lover  again,  she  would  have  been 
startled  and  shocked  into  a  sorrow  no  less  wordless 
by  the  change  she  needs  now  must  see  in  him. 
Outside  there  in  the  shadowed,  snow-smoothed 
square  she  realized  nothing  more,  understood  noth- 
ing more,  than  that  her  lost  was  found,  that  her  lover 
had  come  back  to  her  from  the  dominion  of  Giant 
201 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Despair.  But  in  the  clear  candlelight  of  the  great 
room  she  perceived  the  plight  in  which  he  had 
come.  His  clothes  were  ragged  and  soiled  and 
squalid.  The  boots  upon  his  feet  seemed  to  hang 
together  fortuitously,  mere  fragments  of  ancient 
leather  through  which  the  naked,  mud-stained 
flesh  showed  piteously.  Crania's  heart  ached  as 
she  saw,  and  she  longed  to  stoop  down  over  those 
poor  smirched  feet  and  wash  them  with  her  tears 
and  dry  them  with  her  hair.  The  miserable  hat 
which  he  now  held  in  his  hand  would  have  seemed 
shabby  in  the  hand  of  a  beggar,  too  full  of  holes  to 
be  of  any  service  if  extended  for  the  solicitation  of 
alms.  The  gifts  of  the  generous  would  have  gone 
through  it  like  sand  through  a  sieve.  He  seemed  to 
be  wearing  no  body  linen  at  all,  for  the  shapeless 
old  coat  that  might  have  once  been  a  brave  blue, 
and  that  was  now  mottled  and  stained  to  all  man- 
ner of  sickly  shades,  was  buttoned  close  about  his 
throat,  and  there  was  no  hint  of  even  the  dingiest 
white  about  his  wrists.  Gaunt  ruin  grinned  from 
every  rent  and  tear,  from  every  seam  and  smear  of 
those  shameful  garments.  It  was  evident  that  the 
wearer  had  long  since  abandoned  any  effort  of  a 
dying  pride  to  preserve  a  semblance  of  cleanliness 
in  his  miserable  tatters. 

But  it  was  not  the  change  in  his  attire,  shocking 

and  startling  though  it  was,  that  seemed  the  most 

shocking  and  startling  alteration  in  Dennis  Tirowen. 

His  body  that  was  huddled  about  by  those  poor 

202 


MOODY    FOOD 

clouts,  his  body  that  had  always  worn  so  valiant 
a  carriage  and  showed  so  stalwart,  now  seemed  to 
stoop  beneath  the  burden  of  misfortune.  From  his 
rounded  shoulders  his  head,  that  he  had  always  held 
so  high,  now  drooped  in  a  pitiful  way  that  suggested 
profound  dejection  and  discouragement.  His  arms 
hung  listlessly  by  his  sides,  as  if  they  had  lost 
all  strength  to  lift  themselves  in  defense  or  to  push  a 
passage  through  the  world.  His  face  was  wan  and 
drawn,  and  pinched  with  ugly  lines  traced  on  it 
where  hunger  and  thirst  had  bitten,  and  uglier  lines 
— the  ciphers  of  debauch.  His  hair  was  disordered 
and  overlong  and  ragged  of  edge.  It  looked  as  if 
it  had  long  since  forgotten  all  knowledge  of  the 
barber's  shears.  The  nails  of  his  long  musician's 
fingers  were  untended  and  unpleasing;  his  hands 
were  grimy,  back  and  palm.  His  eyes  that  had 
been  of  old  so  swift  and  bright  and  defiant  were 
now  weary,  lusterless  and  apathetic,  bloodshot  and 
dull.  The  man,  as  he  stood  in  the  brilliant  room, 
with  his  shambling  carriage,  limp  limbs  and  gro- 
tesque caricature  of  human  raiment,  was  a  tragic 
contrast  to  the  high-spirited  youth  who  had  set  out 
from  the  kingdom  of  Kerry,  fiddle  under  arm  and 
masterpiece  in  pocket,  with  so  much  confidence  to 
seek  his  fortune  only  a  few  short  months  before. 
Then  he  was  going  to  conquer  London,  to  eclipse 
the  triumphs  of  Mr.  Moore,  to  gather  in  handfuls 
of  golden  guineas,  to  see  the  world  in  worship  at 
his  feet.  Now,  as  he  shivered  there  in  his  rags  in 
203 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

the  warm  drawing-room,  a  piteous  ruin,  it  was 
plain  that  he  had  failed  in  the  struggle,  it  was  plain 
that  however  the  struggle  had  been  carried  on, 
with  what  expense  of  energy,  with  what  device  of 
strategy,  the  result  to  him  had  been  catastrophe, 
all  his  rose-colored  hopes  drowned  and  damned  in 
black,  overmastering  disaster. 

But  it  was  not  at  the  first  blush,  and  only  after 
a  little  while,  that  Grania  was  able  to  realize  the 
plight  to  which  the  passing  of  so  short  a  space  had 
had  the  power  to  reduce  her  lover.  For  the  mo- 
ment she  only  comprehended  that  he  was  there, 
Dennis  Tirowen,  Dennis  of  the  Sweet  Mouth,  her 
Dennis,  that  she  had  found  him,  that  he  was  alive, 
and  that  the  aching  anxiety  of  the  past  months 
had  come  to  an  end.  She  clung  to  him  closely 
naming  his  name  again  and  again  in  a  tender 
ecstasy  of  delight,  as  if  the  mere  sound  of  those 
sweet  syllables  repeated  over  and  over  again  ex- 
pressed to  the  full  all  the  sorrow  of  which  she  had 
drunk  so  deep  and  all  the  joy  which  she  was  now 
so  eager  to  taste.  At  once  fiercely  and  tenderly 
she  blessed  him  with  caresses,  to  which  very  strange- 
ly the  man  seemed  almost  unwilling  to  respond, 
though  he  murmured  her  name  softly  from  time  to 
time. 

At  length  Grania  released  Dennis  from  her  arms 

and   looking   steadily   upon   him,  understood    the 

bitter  pass  to  which  he  had  come,  saw  with  clear, 

sad  vision  against  the  glowing  background  of  the 

204 


MOODY    FOOD 

stately  golden  room  the  sorry  figure  of  the  poor 
musician  with  his  drenched  and  tattered  garments, 
his  degraded  bearing,  his  unkempt  locks,  and  his 
wan,  worn  features.  It  was  miserably  plain  that 
he  was  hungry;  it  was  miserably  plain  that  he  was 
cold.  His  soiled  hands,  his  stubbled  cheeks  and 
chin  were  raw-red  with  the  rigor  of  the  night,  his 
clothes  were  soaked  with  snow.  A  fierce  pity  surged 
through  Crania's  heart  as  her  clear  gaze  showed  her 
mercilessly  the  miserable  truth.  She  could  not  bear 
to  think  that  her  lover  had  come  to  this,  that  he  had 
been  suffering  such  cruel  buffets,  while  she  had  been 
so  favored  by  fortune,  and  that  he  had  suffered 
alone,  when,  at  a  word,  at  a  sign,  she  would  have  so 
gladly  come  to  his  aid. 

What  indeed  were  to  her  his  rags,  his  squalor  ? 
She  clung  to  him,  loving,  caressing,  and  he  suffered 
her  tenderness  listlessly,  looking  wistfully  about  him 
like  a  scared  animal  in  a  strange  place.  She  ques- 
tioned him  eagerly  now  that  she  had  him  to  herself, 
staring  passionately  into  his  face  and  striving  to  fix 
his  wandering,  furtive  gaze  with  her  steadfast,  eager 
eyes. 

"Oh,  Dennis,  Dennis,"  she  cried,  "it  is  the  happy 
woman  I  am  to  hold  you  in  my  arms.  What  have 
you  been  doing  all  this  weary  while  ?  Why  have 
you  kept  silence  ?  Why  have  you  kept  hidden  from 
me  that  have  been  hunting  you  so  hotly  ?  And,  oh, 
my  dear,  why  are  you  like  this,  and  on  such  a 
night?" 

205 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

The  man  seemed  to  struggle  with  the  heaviness 
of  his  mood.  He  was  acting  as  a  man  might  who 
had  lost  consciousness  and  was  being  slowly  re- 
called to  knowledge  of  the  living  world.  He  tried 
to  speak,  and  failed;  then  tried  again,  and  suc- 
ceeded. 

"My  little  Grania,"  he  said,  with  a  groan,  "things 
have  gone  ill  with  me  since  we  parted.  I  was  to 
make  my  fortune,  wasn't  I  ?  Well,  these  rags  are 
my  fortune/' 

He  indicated  his  dismal  apparel  with  a  gesture 
that  for  all  its  intended  humility  had  something  in 
it  too  of  vainglory  strangely  ill-fitting.  In  his 
voice,  too,  even  while  he  made  confession,  there  was 
a  note  of  sullen  defiance  against  which  Grania  shut 
her  ears. 

"My  poor,  dear  love,"  she  pleaded.  "Tell  me 
all  about  it.  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?" 

The  man  gave  an  ugly  shudder,  and  there  was  an 
ugly  bitterness  in  his  voice  as  he  answered.  "Sure, 
fortune  played  leapfrog  with  me,  just  to  jump  into 
your  arms  it  seems.  I  was  going  to  win  the  world 
and  lay  it  at  your  feet,  no  less,  and  now  it's  you 
that  are  the  great  lady  and  I  the  beggar  at  your 
gate." 

Grania  laid  a  swift  hand  on  his  mouth.  "Hush! 
love,"  she  whispered,  "you  mustn't  talk  like  that. 
What  does  it  matter  which  of  us  has  got  the  silly 
shillings  and  guineas  so  long  as  we  have  each  other 
again  at  last." 

206 


MOODY    FOOD 

Dennis  shook  his  head  wearily.  The  sullen  look 
on  his  face  had  faded  to  one  of  extreme  fatigue. 
He  shivered,  and  she  saw  how  his  gaze  was  fixed 
upon  the  glowing  hearth.  Taking  Dennis  by  the 
arm  she  drew  him,  unresisting,  toward  the  fire  and 
made  him  plump  himself  down  in  the  most  com- 
fortable of  the  many  comfortable  chairs  that  neigh- 
bored the  blaze.  "Warm  yourself,  Dennis  darling/' 
she  commanded,  "and  don't  talk  for  a  while,  till  I 
have  found  something  to  comfort  you."  Dennis, 
huddled  among  the  cushions,  and  extending  his 
grimy  fingers  greedily  toward  the  glowing  hearth, 
seemed  to  yield  passively  to  her  sweet  imperiousness. 
She  watched  him  for  a  moment,  so  changed,  so 
pathetic,  so  abject,  with  eyes  that  threatened  to 
brim  with  tears. 

But  Grania  was  never  a  one  for  weeping  if  there 
were  anything  better  to  do,  and  here  she  recognized 
matter  more  imperative.  She  rang  the  bell,  and 
when  the  servant  came — it  may  have  been  John,  it 
may  have  been  Thomas,  Mr.  Redacre  does  not  en- 
lighten us — she  told  him  to  bring  a  bottle  of  port 
and  some  sandwiches.  True  to  the  traditions  of  his 
tribe,  John — or  Thomas — heard  the  order  with 
unchanged  countenance;  looked,  without  seeming 
to  look,  at  the  queer,  squalid  figure  crouching  in  his 
rags  over  the  fire,  and  quitted  the  room  in  good 
order.  What  he  said  to  Thomas,  if  he  were  John — 
or  what  he  said  to  John,  if  he  were  Thomas — may 
readily  be  imagined.  Whatever  he  said  he  said  it 
207 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

with  commendable  brevity  before  conveying  to  the 
butler  Crania's  order  and  its  cause.  In  a  very  few 
minutes  the  port  and  the  sandwiches  rested  on  a 
table  in  the  great  room,  Dennis  and  Grania  were 
alone  again,  and  below  stairs  the  parliament  of  the 
servants'  hall  was  in  full  session. 

During  the  short  interval  in  which  the  order  for 
food  and  drink  was  being  obeyed  Dennis  said 
nothing,  but  sat  hunched  forward,  still  staring  at 
the  fire  and  the  flames,  while  the  heat  from  the 
hearth,  acting  upon  his  snow-sodden  garments,  drew 
from  them  a  mist  of  steam.  Grania,  watching  him 
lovingly,  respected  his  silence.  She  saw  nothing 
repulsive  in  the  shabby  wretch  that  cowered  there, 
his  rags  mocking  the  damask;  she  chose  rather  to 
consider  that  his  presence  graced  the  room,  bringing 
with  it,  as  it  did  into  her  world  of  artifice  and  in- 
trigue, the  spirit  whose  presence  had  so  long  been 
missing,  the  spirit  of  love.  Crania's  heart  yearned 
over  her  soiled  and  battered  lover;  if  any  thought 
of  all  the  fine  gentlemen  she  knew,  all  the  fine  gen- 
tlemen who  toasted  her  and  wooed  her,  came  into 
her  mind,  it  was  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  gang 
of  dandies  and  their  kind,  and  to  the  advantage  of 
the  poor  waif  and  stray  from  Kerry.  Her  flowing 
sorrow  for  him  had  in  it  no  bitter  water  of  scorn. 
He  was  her  man,  was  just  her  thought;  he  was  her 
man  come  back  to  her.  What  could  it  matter  how 
he  came  ?  He  could  be  no  dearer  to  her  if  he  out- 
vied Mr.  Brummell  in  the  exquisite  fastidiousness 
208 


MOODY    FOOD 

of  his  attire;  how  could  he  be  less  dear  though  he 
were  garbed  after  a  fashion  that  would  discredit  a 
rag-picker.  There  were  tears  in  her  heart  if  she 
suffered  none  to  shine  in  her  eyes,  and  the  pure 
fountain  of  her  pity  flowed  only  in  love  for  Dennis. 


I   WON'T  MARRY  YOU,    MY   PRETTY   MAID 

A 5  the  door  closed  behind  the  servant  who  had 
brought  the  wine  and  food  that  Grania  had 
ordered,  and  even  as  Grania  was  in  the  act  of  pour- 
ing out  a  glass  of  port,  Dennis,  that  had  kept  so  still 
for  a  few  minutes,  shifted  from  his  crouching  posi- 
tion over  the  fire  and  turned  his  face  toward  her. 
Firelight  was  on  it,  candlelight  was  on  it,  and  even 
Crania's  affection  could  not  deny  that  the  expression 
they  revealed  was  far  from  pleasing.  There  was  a 
snarling  air  about  the  mouth,  where  the  drawn-back 
lips  displayed  the  teeth  almost  threateningly;  there 
was  a  quarrelsome  look  in  the  eyes  that  had  sud- 
denly brightened  at  the  sight  of  food  and  drink. 
He  made  her  think  for  an  instant  of  some  fierce, 
voracious  animal  that  was  hungry  for  its  prey.  What 
had  he  done,  she  wondered,  what  had  he  suffered, 
what  had  he  endured  to  bring  him  to  this  pass  ? 
She  shivered  in  the  warm  room,  feeling  suddenly 
cold  with  his  cold,  and  famished  with  his  famine, 
grimly  understanding  what  hunger  and  cold  might 
do  to  break  down  a  man.  Before  she  could  ad- 
vance toward  him,  ministering  wine,  he  spoke,  and 
the  sound  of  his  voice  was  bitter  as  a  taunt, 
Zip 


I    WON'T    MARRY    YOU 

"Won't  your  fine  servants  think  it  strange  of 
you,"  he  sneered,  "sheltering  and  cherishing  a  poor 
wretch  like  me  ?" 

The  words  were  unworthy  of  his  utterance,  of 
her  hearing,  but  she  forgave  him;  rather  she  took 
his  state  of  mind  for  granted,  and  found  that  there 
was  nothing  for  her  to  forgive.  She  carried  some 
sandwiches  to  him  on  a  plate. 

"I  don't  think  we  need  trouble  ourselves  about 
that,  dear  one,"  she  said,  gently.  She  made  him 
eat  a  couple  of  the  sandwiches,  which  he  did  wolf- 
ishly,  and  yet  with  the  kind  of  difficulty  natural  to 
one  that  has  fasted  overlong.  Then  she  gave  him 
a  glass  of  wine  and  waited  until  he  had  drunk  it  in 
two  fierce,  feverish  gulps.  Then  she  spoke  again. 
"Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  darling." 

He  reached  out  his  hand  for  more  food,  and  ate 
it.  He  reached  out  his  hand  for  more  drink,  and 
drank  it.  Then  he  answered,  with  a  defiance  that 
was  meant  to  be  heroic,  and  that  somehow  seemed 
histrionic.  "The  tale  of  a  failure  is  easily  told. 
I'm  not  the  first  fool  that  thought  the  world  was  his 
for  the  winning  and  found  himself  in  the  gutter." 
He  gave  another  scornful,  sweeping  gesture  over 
his  sordid  accoutrements.  So  might  a  fallen  king 
call  attention  to  his  soiled  ermine. 

Grania  saw  and  would  not  see.  If  it  were  pos- 
sible she  felt  more  tender  for  his  tragic-comic  woe. 
"But  why  didn't  you  write  to  me,  my  love?" 
she  murmured.  "Was  it  kind  of  you  to  leave 
211 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

me   with   the    hunger   in   my   heart    all   this    sad 
while  ?" 

Dennis  turned  his  head  away  and  stared  at  the 
fire.  He  felt  that  he  resembled  Napoleon  at  Elba, 
felt  that  he,  too,  had  lost  an  empire.  "I  told  you," 
he  said,  gloomily,  "that  I  was  going  to  be  still  until 
I  had  won  my  victory.  I  thought,  God  help  me!  I 
would  be  soon  in  the  winning  it.  But  I  hadn't 
landed  on  English  soil  before  my  troubles  began." 

There  was  a  world  of  indignant  pathos  in  his 
voice.  Grania  gave  him  another  glass  of  port, 
which  he  drank  more  slowly  than  its  predecessors. 
Then  she  questioned  him  tenderly.  "How  was 
that,  Dennis  darling  ?" 

Dennis  made  a  grimace.  "Everything  went 
against  me  from  the  beginning,"  he  complained. 
"There  was  bad  company  on  board  the  very  boat 
that  I  took,  though  it  seemed  pleasant  enough  when 
I  made  acquaintance  with  it.  Sure,  it  began  with  a 
glass  of  punch,  and  it  passed  to  a  hand  at  cards,  and 
by  this  and  by  that,  before  we  touched  land  I  had 
made  a  big  hole  in  the  bag  of  money  that  was  to 
keep  me  going  for  a  year." 

Grania  gave  a  little  cry.  For  all  she  was  an 
O'Hara  to  begin  with,  for  all  that  she  had  lived  so 
queenly  this  length  of  time  and  seen  money  scat- 
tered so  lavishly,  she  shared  the  peasant's  sense  of 
sorrow  for  a  wasted  hoard.  "Oh,  Dennis  darling," 
she  wailed,  "however  did  you  come  to  let  that 
happen  ?" 

212 


I    WON'T    MARRY    YOU 

Dennis,  hugging  his  grief,  but  visibly  thawed  by 
the  warmth  and  the  wine,  wore  the  air  of  one  that 
was  the  fool  of  fortune.  "They  were  card  sharpers, 
no  less,"  he  confessed,  sheepishly;  "but  what  could 
I  do.  I  shook  my  fist  in  their  faces,  and  they  laughed 
in  mine,  and  so  we  parted.  And  there  was  I  in  a 
strange  land,  alone  and  forlorn.  I  tramped  to  Lon- 
don— oh,  the  weary  walk  it  was! — and  fell  among 
thieves  by  the  way,  in  a  tavern  I  put  up  at,  that 
lightened  me  of  the  most  of  the  little  I  had  left. 
When  I  stormed  in  the  morning  the  landlord  was 
for  pushing  me  out  of  doors  and  I  was  for  knocking 
him  down,  and  then  they  sent  for  the  constable,  and 
I,  being  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  took  to  my 
heels.  And  so,  by  this  and  by  that  I  came,  in  good 
time  or  in  bad  time,  to  London,  heavier  of  heart, 
emptier  of  purse,  but  still  coming  to  London.  I 
thought  that  when  I  would  be  entering  London  I 
would  be  entering  heaven,  in  a  way  of  speaking. 
But  it  proved  to  be  entering  hell." 

Crania  was  close  beside  him  now,  seated  on  the 
elbow  of  his  chair  with  one  arm  about  his  neck  and 
one  hand  stroking  the  tangle  of  his  wet,  matted  hair. 
"My  poor  dear!"  she  sighed. 

Dennis,  now  that  he  had  found  his  voice,  seemed 
willing  enough  to  use  it,  as  if  the  sound  of  it  pleased 
him,  as  if  he  found  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  the  telling 
of  his  pains.  He  continued  his  narrative.  "After 
wandering  about  for  Heaven  knows  how  long,"  he 
said,  "  I  found  a  bit  of  a  lodging  off  a  place  they  call 

15  213 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Holborn,  and  I  set  to  work — for  I  wasn't  so  broken- 
spirited  then — to  make  my  fortune,  save  the  mark." 

Grania  caressed  him  lovingly.  "My  dear,  my 
dear!"  she  murmured. 

Dennis  scarcely  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of  her 
hand  upon  his  hair,  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  the 
sweet  music  of  her  speech,  as  he  went  on  with  his 
tale.  "  I  made  fair  copies  of  my  play,  my  poor  play, 
my  *  Buried  City/  and  I  sent  one  to  each  of  the 
managers.  I  called  myself  by  an  English  name  to 
evade  their  prejudice — John  Smith  was  the  name  I 
pitched  upon — and  I  craved  the  favor  of  an  early 
answer.  But  do  you  think  that  e'er  a  word  the 
villains  ever  answered  ?  Devil  a  bit." 

Grania  glowed  with  anger  against  such  ingrati- 
tude. "The  shame  of  it!"  she  protested. 

Dennis  went  on,  apparently  indifferent  to  every- 
thing except  the  record  of  his  wrongs.  "I  waited 
at  the  stage-doors  till  my  legs  ached,  me  that  was 
the  most  tireless  walker  in  Kerry,  but  never  could 
get  speech  with  one  of  the  rogues.  And  I  tried  the 
men  that  publish  music,  but  none  of  them  would 
so  much  as  listen  to  me  when  they  found  tha't  I 
couldn't  afford  to  have  my  tune  printed.  And  my 
shoes  wore  out,  and  my  clothes  wore  out,  and  my 
money  wore  out,  and  my  heart  wore  out." 

Grania  could  scarcely  restrain  her  tears  as  she  lis- 
tened to  this  dreary  story.  "  But  how  have  you  lived, 
darling  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously.  Her  swift  wit  inter- 
preted and  intensified  all  the  griefs  that  he  related, 
214 


I    WON'T    MARRY    YOU 

and  in  sharp  contrast  to  them  she  set  up,  almost  in 
self-accusation,  the  wonder  of  her  own  condition. 

The  frown  on  the  face  of  Dennis  deepened. 
"How  have  I  lived,  is  it?"  he  asked,  bitterly. 
"  How  have  I  lived  ?  Listen  to  me  and  I  will  tell 
you.  One  day  I  was  drifting  home  to  my  lodgings, 
hungry,  and  cold,  and  wet  with  the  wicked  rain. 
I  had  my  fiddle  under  my  arm,  and  as  I  passed  a 
tavern  some  fellows  that  stood  at  the  door  called  to 
me  to  play  them  a  tune.  I  was  ashamed  to  do  it, 
but  I  was  empty  and  chill,  and  I  did,  and  they  gave 
me  some  pence — my  first  earnings — and  they  gave 
me  some  drink,  which  warmed  me,  and,  as  I  began, 
so  I  went  on.  I  play  outside  taverns  for  pennies  and 
I  sleep  in  a  garret  with  my  fiddle  in  my  arms,  my 
fiddle  that  keeps  my  body  and  soul  together." 

Grania  drew  his  head  close  to  her  bosom  and  held 
it  there.  "Oh,  Dennis,  Dennis!"  she  cried.  "You 
wring  my  heart.  But  did  you  never  hear  of  what 
happened  to  me  ?" 

Dennis  gave  a  mocking  laugh  that  sounded 
strangely  unpleasant  rumbling  hollowly  from  his 
gaunt  cheeks.  "Oh,  I  heard  of  that  sure  enough," 
he  said.  "It  got  into  the  papers,  and  it  made  a 
talk  even  so  low  down  as  the  taverns  where  I  served." 

Grania  twisted  and  bent  where  she  sat  so  that 
without  leaving  hold  of  him  she  could  look  into  his 
face.  "  Then  why  didn't  you  write  to  me,  darling  ? " 
she  said.  "Wasn't  my  luck  your  luck?  Wouldn't 
we  share  and  share  alike  ?" 
215 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Dennis  met  her  tender  gaze  angrily.  "Is  it  the 
beggar-man  you  would  be  wishing  to  see  me,  and  me 
with  my  pride  ?  Hadn't  I  come  to  London  to  make 
a  home  for  you,  that  was  waiting  for  me  in  Ireland  ? 
And  if  I  failed  and  stayed  poor,  and  it  pleased  God 
to  make  you  rich,  I  was  never  the  man  to  seek  alms 
of  a  woman,  least  of  all  the  woman  I  was  wishful  to 
make  my  wife." 

Grania  clung  closer  to  him,  crushing  her  silks 
against  his  rags.  "You  can  make  me  your  wife 
now,  Dennis/*  she  whispered.  "You  shall  forget 
all  your  tribulations,  and  you  shall  be  as  happy  as 
the  days  are  long." 

Dennis  answered  her  appeal  more  angrily  still. 
"What  kind  of  sense  are  you  talking,  Grania,  my 
girl?"  he  cried.  "Never  would  I  wed  the  girl  of 
my  heart  if  I  couldn't  afford  to  keep  her  decently. 
Never  would  I  consent  to  live  on  the  bounty  of  my 
wife.  Do  you  think  I  have  no  pride,  Grania  ?  Do 
you  think  my  spirit  is  broken  entirely  by  this  wicked 
city?" 

Grania  shook  her  head.  "Never  ask  me  such 
a  question,  my  dear,"  she  murmured,  fondly. 
"But  sure  it  is  no  sin  or  shame  for  two  lovers  to 
share  a  slice  of  luck  that  God  has  been  pleased  to 
cut  for  them  from  the  pudding  of  good  fortune  ?" 

Dennis  made  a  gesture  expressive  of  flagrant  im- 
patience.    "You  are  only  a  woman,"  he  said,  sour- 
ly;   "you   wouldn't   understand.      I    don't   blame 
you;  but  you  wouldn't  understand  my  pride." 
216 


I    WON'T    MARRY    YOU 

Grania  lifted  herself  a  little  away  from  his  shoul- 
der and  stared  at  him  amazed.  "Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me,"  she  asked,  "that  you  won't  marry  me, 
Dennis — marry  me  at  once  ?" 

Dennis  answered  doggedly.  "Of  course  I  mean 
to  tell  you  that.  I  will  never  marry  you,  Grania, 
until  I  can  afford  to  keep  you  as  a  decent  man's 
wife  should  be  kept." 

"But  think  of  it,  Dennis,  think  of  it!"  Grania 
pleaded.  "Here  am  I  as  rich  as  Croesus,  and  with 
no  greater  pleasure  in  my  wealth  than  to  put  it  all 
into  your  pockets." 

Dennis  shook  his  head,  and  his  face  was  mulish 
in  its  obstinacy.  "You  are  kindness  itself,  Grania," 
he  said,  "but  it's  no  use  arguing.  Never  a  penny 
of  your  money  would  I  touch,  never  will  I  put  the 
ring  upon  your  finger,  till  I  have  the  right,  as  I  mean 
the  right,  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

Grania  gazed  at  him,  saw  the  stubborn  purpose 
in  his  eyes.  "You  mean  it,  Dennis  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean  it,  Grania,"  Dennis  answered,  steadily, 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  dignity  in  his  determination 
that  helped  to  redeem  it  in  the  girl's  esteem. 

"You  are  in  the  wrong,"  she  said,  and  sighed. 
"  Heaven  help  us !  you  are  in  the  wrong.  You  would 
have  me  take  your  money  without  question — " 

Dennis  interrupted  her.  "Because  I  am  a  man. 
There  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  matter.  It's 
no  use,  Grania;  I  know  what  I  must  do." 

217 


XI 

A   TALE    OF   A   WAGER 

kept  silent  for  a  little  while,  that 
seemed  a  long  while  to  her,  thinking  thoughts. 
Presently  she  spoke.  "Dennis  dear,"  she  said, 
"why  did  you  play  that  air  to-night  if  that  is  the 
way  you  feel  ?" 

"Why  did  I  play  that  air?"  Dennis  answered, 
gloomily.  "God  knows.  Many's  the  time  that  I 
have  passed  your  fine  house  and  looked  up  at  it 
and  thought  of  you  inside  with  all  your  great 
friends,  and  I  expected  that  I  should  pass  it  to- 
night just  the  same.  But  somehow  in  the  cold 
and  the  wet  and  the  darkness  there  came  a  great 
longing  into  my  heart  to  see  you  again,  and  a  great 
wonder  into  my  mind  as  to  whether  you  would  be 
glad  to  see  me  again,  or  whether  you  had  forgotten 
all  about  me.  So  I  pulled  my  fiddle  out  of  my 
pocket  and  set  to  playing,  scarcely  knowing  what 
I  did,  but  thinking,  at  least,  that  if  you  heard  it  you 
would  know  that  I  was  there." 

"I  am  glad  you  did,"  Grania  said,  tenderly. 

Dennis  shook  his  head  angrily.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  that  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "What  is 
218 


A    TALE    OF    A    WAGER 

the  good  of  it  ?  You  are  on  the  heights  and  I  am 
in  the  depths;  there  is  a  great  gulf  between  us." 

"You  might  bridge  it  with  a  word,"  Grania 
whispered. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  Dennis  said,  fiercely.  "I 
have  said  my  say,  and  I  mean  it." 

Grania  sighed  again  wearily.  :"Tis  the  proud 
spirit  you  have,  Dennis,"  she  said;  "but,  at  least, 
I  suppose  you  won't  be  too  proud  to  let  me  help 
you  to  your  end  ?" 

Dennis  shook  himself  fretfully.  "  What  can  you 
do  for  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Will  you  dine  with  me  to-night?"  Grania  an- 
swered. She  asked  the  question  as  if  it  were  the 
most  natural  one  in  the  world. 

Dennis  sat  up  a  little  in  his  chair  and  gaped. 
"  Sure,  you  are  laughing  at  me  and  my  rags,"  he  said, 
querulously. 

"Don't  say  such  words,  heart,"  Grania  pro- 
tested. "But  I  have  the  manager  of  the  Rotundo 
Theater  corning  here  this  evening,  and  it  would 
be  grand  for  you  to  meet  him." 

Dennis  was  plainly  agitated  by  her  words.  "The 
manager  of  the  Rotundo  Theater — Mr.  Heritage?" 
he  questioned. 

Grania  nodded.  "Himself.  I  have  told  him  all 
about  you,  and  he  is  crazy  mad  to  meet  you,  and  it 
will  be  the  surprise  of  his  life  to  find  you  here  this 
very  evening  as  ever  is.  And  I  have  some  fine 
guests  that  maybe  you  could  play  your  air  to,  and 
219 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

they  would  take  your  name  all  over  town  and  make 
you  famous  in  a  week.  In  a  week,  is  it  ?  What  am 
I  saying  ?  You'd  be  famous  in  a  day." 

Dennis,  as  he  listened  to  Crania's  words  of  cheer, 
had  gradually  slipped  out  of  his  sullen  lethargy  as  a 
snake  slips  out  of  its  skin.  He  gripped  the  arms  of 
the  chair  in  which  he  lay  supine  and  forced  himself 
to  sit  bolt  upright,  staring  at  Grania.  In  his  new 
alertness,  his  new  eagerness,  he  seemed  as  if  he  had 
wakened  out  of  some  long  sleep  to  a  sudden  and 
pleasurable  consciousness.  Then  the  clouds  of 
doubt  and  disappointment  darkened  his  face  again. 
"Oh,  Grania,  how  splendid!"  he  cried,  in  obedience 
to  his  first  impulse.  Then,  obeying  his  second,  he 
added,  "But  how  can  I  sit  at  your  table  like  this  ?" 
And  he  pointed  with  more  irritation  now  than  pride 
at  his  rags. 

Grania  smiled  encouragement  and  confidence. 
"Just  do  as  I  tell  you,"  she  said,  "and  all  will  be 
well.  Now,  Dennis,  to  please  me  you  must  put  a 
bit  of  your  pride  in  your  pocket,  for  this  way  of 
mine  is  the  way  to  try  for  your  fortune  and  to  win 
it." 

Dennis  aped  her  uplifted  mood  with  his  own  new- 
born enthusiasm.  "Show  me  the  road,  sweet- 
heart," he  promised,  cheerfully,  "and  I'll  do  the 
rest." 

Grania  looked  at  him  a  little  wistfully.  His 
easily  shifting  mood  disquieted  her,  yet  she  believed 
that  if  he  would  fall  in  with  her  scheme  and  carry 
220 


A    TALE    OF    A    WAGER 

it  out  to  the  best  of  his  ability  it  had  a  rare  chance 
to  end  well.  To  be  sure  it  seemed  a  little  bit  like  a 
fancy  in  a  fairy  tale,  but  what  then  ?  There  was  a 
deal  of  truth  in  a  fairy  tale. 

"Dennis,"  she  said,  "you  will  give  me  your 
promise  to  do  as  I  wish,  however  strange  it  may 
seem  to  you,  and  this  will  be  a  great  evening  for 
both  of  us." 

Dennis  nodded,  puzzled  and  wondering,  and 
Grania,  taking  his  acquiescence  for  granted,  rang 
the  bell  and  told  the  answering  servant  that  she 
wished  to  speak  with  Mr.  Fenny.  When  they  were 
again  alone  Grania  spoke  quickly,  anticipating 
the  question  that  she  knew  Dennis  was  sure  to 
put. 

"Mr.  Fenny,"  she  said,  "acts  as  my  private 
secretary,  which  is  of  no  importance;  but  he  is  about 
your  size,  which  is  of  great  importance.  I  am 
going  to  get  him  to  take  you  home  with  him  and  to 
lend  you  a  suit  of  clothes  that  will  set  you  off  be- 
comingly, and  then  you  shall  dine  with  me  to-night 
and  win  all  hearts." 

Dennis  began  instantly  to  make  objections.  He 
would  not  have  been  himself  if  he  had  not  proved 
ready  to  make  objections  to  any  plan  proposed  for 
his  welfare.  But  Grania,  who  saw  that  he  was 
really  eager  to  be  convinced,  overruled  his  objections 
one  after  another.  Of  course  he  could  not  put 
fine  clothes  on  a  soiled  body,  but  he  could  wash  him- 
self as  clean  as  a  new  pin  at  Mr.  Penny's.  Of 
221 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

course  he  was  miserably  tired,  but  he  could  have  at 
least  an  hour's  sleep  at  Mr.  Penny's  after  his  bath 
before  he  need  think  of  dressing  for  the  dinner.  Of 
course  Mr.  Fenny  would  be  delighted  to  render  such 
a  small  service  to  a  man  of  genius,  and  equally,  of 
course,  when  Dennis  was  the  idol  of  London  he 
could  easily  work  off  his  obligation  to  Mr.  Fenny  in 
a  dozen  ways  that  would  be  highly  satisfactory  to 
that  gentleman. 

By  the  time  that  Mr.  Fenny  made  his  appearance 
Dennis  had  been  won  over  to  consent,  albeit  none 
too  graciously,  to  Crania's  proposals.  The  wine 
and  meat  had  brisked  him  not  a  little,  rousing  him 
to  his  old  readiness  to  assert  independence,  but  he 
was  too  much  taken  with  the  immediate  chance 
offered  to  him  not  to  give  way.  As  for  Mr.  Fenny, 
entering  all  point-device,  whether  he  had  consented 
to  exchange  some  words  with  John  or  Thomas  or 
no,  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  show  the  slightest 
surprise  either  at  Dennis's  presence  or  Dennis's 
appearance. 

Dennis  rose  as  Mr.  Fenny  entered  and  Grania 
formally  presented  the  two  men  to  each  other  as 
calmly  as  if  they  had  encountered  in  some  aristo- 
cratic assembly. 

"Mr.  Fenny,"  Grania  said,  "this  is  my  oldest, 
nearest,  and  dearest  friend,  Mr.  Dennis  Tirowen." 

Fenny  bowed  gracefully  to  Dennis  and  Dennis 
bowed  awkwardly  to  Fenny. 

"I  am  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir," 


A    TALE    OF    A    WAGER 

Fenny  said,  blandly,  "and  I  envy  you  the  recom- 
mendation." 

He  smiled  on  Dennis  as  he  spoke  with  an  amia- 
bility which,  it  may  be,  he  was  far  from  feeling. 
Any  amusement  he  may  have  felt  at  the  whimsical 
situation  he  kept  most  religiously  to  himself.  There 
was  no  hint  of  mirth  or  curiosity  in  his  eyes  or  on 
his  lips.  As  for  Dennis,  he  glowered  at  Fenny  and 
looked,  as  he  felt,  ill  at  ease.  Grania  was,  out- 
wardly at  least,  perfectly  self-possessed. 

"Mr.  Fenny,"  Grania  said,  quietly,  as  one  that 
makes  a  most  ordinary  suggestion,  "I  want  you  to 
take  this  gentleman  to  your  lodgings,  and  to  furnish 
him  with  all  that  he  may  require.  He  is  doing  me 
the  honor  of  joining  my  company  at  dinner  to- 
night." 

Mr.  Fenny  made  another  excellent  bow  in  the 
direction  of  Dennis.  "With  the  greatest  pleasure," 
he  protested;  and,  indeed,  he  carried  himself  as  if 
his  chief  desire  in  life  was  to  be  agreeable  to  the 
shabby  stranger. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  Grania,  and  she  gave 
it  tongue.  "Mr.  Tirowen,"  she  said,  with  a 
quizzical  smile,  "is  to  be  congratulated  upon  the 
conclusion  of  his  wager." 

Dennis  turned  his  eyes  from  their  half-scornful, 
half-envious  appreciation  of  Mr.  Penny's  finery  to 
Crania's  face.  What  on  earth,  he  asked  himself, 
was  she  talking  about  ?  What  wager  did  she  speak 
of?  He  soon  learned. 

223 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Fenny,  seeing  that  he  was  expected  to  show 
interest,  showed  it.  "  His  wager  ?"  he  queried, 
with  as  much  show  of  eagerness  as  polite  usage 
permitted. 

Grania  was  really  pleased  with  her  readiness  of 
invention,  and  prompt  to  expound  it.  "  My  friend, 
like  most  men  of  genius,  has  his  eccentricities.  He 
made  a  wager  a  year  ago  that  he  would  travel  to 
London  and  wear  the  same  suit  of  clothes  there 
for  a  twelvemonth." 

Dennis  gaped  with  amazement;  then  he  shut 
his  mouth  tight  and  did  his  best  not  to  grin.  Cer- 
tainly Grania  was  saving  the  situation  magnifi- 
cently. 

Mr.  Fenny  broke  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  clapped 
his  hands  approvingly.  He  did  not  in  the  least  be- 
lieve the  statement,  but  it  was  a  statement  that  in 
a  wagering  age  was  quite  believable.  "Egad!  very 
original  and  neat,"  he  protested,  admiringly.  "I 
do  not  think  a  merrier  bet  was  ever  recorded  at 
White's." 

Grania  had  more  to  say.  "The  time  has  ex- 
pired," she  continued,  "and  the  first  part  of  the 
wager  is  won.  But  there  is  a  second  clause  to  it, 
by  which  my  friend  undertakes  not  to  wear  any  of 
his  own  clothes  when  he  changes  his  attire  for  some- 
thing more  suitable  to  London  society.  By  the 
terms  of  the  wager  he  must  be  indebted  for  his  shift 
to  the  good  offices  of  a  friend.  Now,  I  am  Mr. 
Tirowen's  only  friend  in  London  at  the  moment, 
224 


A    TALE    OF    A    WAGER 

and  in  this  particular  I  cannot  assist  him.     There- 
upon I  thought  of  you." 

Mr.  Fenny  was  vehement  in  his  assurances  of  the 
delight  it  would  afford  him  to  be  of  service  to  Miss 
O'Hara's  friend  in  this  delightful  dilemma,  and  he 
listened  with  an  attentive  ear  to  all  Crania's  in- 
structions, while  Dennis  held  his  peace,  feeling  con- 
fusedly as  if  he  had  stepped  somehow  out  of  Lon- 
don into  the  pages  of  an  Arabian  tale,  and  feeling 
emphatically  grateful  to  Grania  for  the  readiness 
which  had  set  the  seal  of  an  enviable  originality 
upon  his  rags  and  tatters. 


XII 

A   CHANGE    OF   CLOTHES 

MR.  FENNY  never  allowed  himself  to  show 
surprise,  nor  even  to  feel  surprise,  at  any 
wish  or  whim  of  Crania's.  He  had  been  sensible 
enough  to  recognize  from  the  beginning  of  their 
acquaintance  that  when  she  said  a  thing  she  meant 
it,  and  when  she  wished  for  a  thing  to  be  done  it 
was  well  for  those  who  desired  her  friendship  to 
obey  her.  It  was  accordingly  without  even  so 
much  as  a  twitch  of  an  eyelid  or  the  least  elevation 
of  an  eyebrow  that  Mr.  Fenny  accepted  the  charge 
of  the  dingy  and  ragged  individual  whom  Grania 
committed  to  his  care.  He  quitted  the  room,  there- 
fore, after  smiling  as  amiably  upon  the  ragamuffin 
by  the  fire  as  if  he  had  been  the  favorite  among 
his  club  companions,  and  set  to  work  at  once  to 
carry  out  Crania's  commands. 

In  the  hall  he  found  John  and  Thomas  immobile 
and  expressionless.  He  knew  that  they  knew, 
and  they  knew  that  he  knew,  but  the  traditional 
distance  was  preserved.  Mr.  Fenny  sent  John — 
or  Thomas — for  a  coach,  for  he  decided  that  even 
if  the  climatic  conditions  had  been  more  favorable 
226 


A    CHANGE    OF    CLOTHES 

to  walking  exercise  the  contrast  between  the  fine 
scrupulosity  of  his  attire  and  the  grotesque  rags 
of  his  companion  might  succeed  in  attracting  an 
unnecessary  degree  of  notice  in  the  neighborhood 
of  St.  James's,  in  spite  of  the  darkness  of  that 
February  evening. 

While  the  coach  was  being  sent  for,  Mr.  Fenny, 
discreetly  unwilling  to  intrude  upon  the  strange 
pair  in  the  great  room,  beguiled  the  time  in  a  little 
lounge-room,  where  in  a  well-locked  cabinet  of 
gold  and  ivory  the  late  Lord  Ashford  had  sheltered 
a  remarkable  collection  of  books  of  a  light-hearted 
nature.  To  this  well-locked  cabinet  Mr.  Fenny, 
by  favor  of  my  Lord  Cloyne,  had  the  key,  and  he 
now  silenced  unnecessary  speculation  in  his  mind 
by  a  few  minutes'  study  of  the  skittish  in  literature. 
When  the  coach  arrived  Mr.  Fenny  put  aside  his 
book,  relocked  the  cabinet,  and  returned  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Grania  and  Dennis  sat  facing 
each  other  beside  the  hearth. 

Mr.  Fenny  explained  that  a  coach  was  in  waiting, 
and  straightway  he  conducted  Dennis  to  it  with  as 
pleasant  an  air  of  good  fellowship  and  as  entire  an 
absence  of  any  appearance  of  patronage  as  if  he 
had  been  accompanying  one  of  his  chosen  com- 
rades of  the  clubs.  Mr.  Fenny  had  had  the  fore- 
thought to  banish  John  and  Thomas  from  the  hall 
before  ascending  to  fetch  Dennis,  and  the  two  men 
so  oddly  contrasted  passed  unobserved  to  the  wait- 
ing coach,  wherein  Mr.  Fenny  conveyed  Dennis 
227 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  his  lodgings  in  Jermyn  Street,  talking  pleasantly 
the  while,  and  as  if  the  little  adventure  were  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  It  was  for  the 
most  part  a  monologue,  for  Dennis  was  embarrassed 
and  taciturn,  but  Mr.  Fenny  showed  no  conscious- 
ness of  his  companion's  awkwardness,  but  chatted 
away  gaily  and  made  shift  to  speak  for  two. 

When  the  pair  arrived  at  Mr.  Penny's  elegant 
lodgings,  which,  of  course,  were  in  the  fashionable 
end  and  on  the  fashionable  side  of  Jermyn  Street, 
Mr.  Fenny  conducted  Dennis  to  his  apartments, 
where  they  were  received  by  Mr.  Fenny's  gentle- 
man with  a  composure  which  rivaled  in  its  calm 
and  dignity  that  of  Mr.  Fenny  himself.  Master 
and  man  installed  Dennis  in  Mr.  Fenny's  dainty 
dressing-room,  there  to  make  his  necessary  ablu- 
tions with  aid  of  every  exqfiisite  essence,  scent,  soap 
and  unguent  that  Bond  Street  could  afford,  while 
Mr.  Fenny  consulted  with  his  man  on  the  question 
of  Dennis's  attire,  and  studied  the  contents  of  his 
wardrobe. 

Mr.  Fenny  was  fortunate  in  his  man-servant. 
There  never  was  a  better  valet  for  a  man  of  Peregrine 
Fenny's  kidney  than  Sparrow  since  the  word  valet 
became  a  noun  substantive  with  serious  possibilities. 
He  played  the  Leporello  to  Mr.  Fenny's  Don  Gio- 
vanni with  an  air  of  discretion  and  restraint  which 
suggested  rather  that  he  was  sharing  in  the  manage- 
ment of  a  Sunday-school  than  the  amusements  of 
a  libertine.  Had  master  been  judged  by  man,  had 
228 


A    CHANGE    OF    CLOTHES 

the  nature  of  the  one  been  appraised  by  the  stand- 
ard of  the  demeanor  of  the  other,  Mr.  Peregrine 
Fenny  would  have  obtained,  to  his  infinite  amaze- 
ment and  amusement,  a  reputation  very  different 
from  that  which  he  actually  enjoyed. 

Sparrow  had  not  only  the  urbanity,  but  also  the 
dignity,  characteristic  of  the  sort  of  personage  that 
comes  into  mental  being  when  the  words  "rural 
dean"  are  uttered.  He  surveyed  the  panorama  of 
fashionable  life  with  calm,  complacent  eye;  he  aided 
and  abetted  debauch  with  an  air  of  grave  decorum; 
he  took  seduction  and  adultery  for  granted  as  part 
of  a  fine  gentleman's  appanage  with  an  affability 
that  never  descended  into  any  impertinent  sug- 
gestion of  complicity.  When  occasion  called,  as  it 
often  called,  he  was  as  ready  to  play  pimp  and 
pander  as  to  tie  a  cravat  or  to  froth  a  cup  of  choco- 
late. But  he  did  the  one  duty  of  his  office  as  he 
did  the  other,  with  the  same  show  of  suave  cor- 
rectness. 

It  was  with  the  demure  demeanor  of  some  hiero- 
phant  introducing  a  novice  into  the  presence  of  the 
interpreter  of  divinity  that  Mr.  Sparrow  assisted 
Mr.  Fenny  to  usher  Dennis  Tirowen  into  Mr. 
Fenny's  dressing-room,  made  sure  that  all  the 
elegant  appliances  for  perfect  cleanliness  were  in 
their  place,  and  closed  the  door  upon  the  dingy 
poet  with  a  countenance  of  an  imperturbable  gravity. 
If  Mr.  Fenny  chose  to  bring  home  beggars  from 
the  street  that  was  the  affair  of  Mr.  Fenny,  and  not 
16  229 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  be  questioned.  Sparrow's  countenance  had 
worn  the  same  air  of  immaculate  calm  on  so  many 
occasions  when  he  had  ushered  unexpected  visitors 
into  those  dainty  rooms  that  he  was  by  now  well 
drilled  in  impassiveness.  He  had  shown  as  gravely 
remote  to  each  and  all  of  the  vagrant  fair  that 
flitted  so  frequently  across  the  threshold  of  Mr. 
Fenny. 

Never  did  Mr.  Sparrow's  austere  aloofness  of 
demeanor  fail  him,  never,  even  in  the  company  of 
his  kind — if  one  so  incomparable  could  be  said  to 
belong  to  a  class,  who  really  stood  apart,  an  isolated 
specimen — did  he  condescend  to  any  indiscretion 
concerning  his  master's  affairs.  He  listened  to  the 
confidences  of  other  valets  in  the  little  club-room 
of  gentlemen's  gentlemen  at  the  Hand  and  Glove 
in  Ryder  Street  with  good-humored  tolerance;  but 
his  own  lips  never  made  the  minutest  contribution 
to  the  feast  of  scandal.  As  far  as  Mr.  Sparrow  was 
concerned  Mr.  Peregrine  Fenny  might  have  been 
Galahad,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  Abelard. 

After  Dennis,  at  the  expense  of  no  little  labor 
and  a  vast  consumption  of  soap,  had  washed  him- 
self white  of  his  London  grime,  Mr.  Fenny,  punc- 
tilious in  obedience  to  Crania's  commands,  saw  that 
Sparrow  made  up  a  very  good  apology  for  a  bed 
on  the  sofa  in  the  dressing-room,  and  there  he  in- 
sisted that  Dennis  should  rest  for  an  hour.  Once 
between  the  sheets  sleep  settled  swiftly  upon  Den- 
nis's tired,  distraught  senses,  and  it  did  not  seem 
230 


A    CHANGE    OF    CLOTHES 

to  him  that  he  had  closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant 
when  he  was  roused  from  a  dreamless  sleep  to  find 
Mr.  Fenny  standing  by  his  couch  and  assuring  him 
that  it  was  time  for  him  to  arise  and  dress. 

For  a  moment  Dennis  could  not  realize  where  he 
was.  He  was  as  much  puzzled  as  the  awakened 
sleeper  in  the  Oriental  story  who  is  persuaded  by 
the  merrymakers  that  he  is  the  caliph.  Swiftly, 
however,  memory  reasserted  itself,  and  half  eagerly, 
half  reluctantly,  wholly  embarrassed,  Dennis  Tiro- 
wen  quitted  his  sofa  to  surrender  himself  to  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Sparrow,  who,  under  his  master's  di- 
rections, was  to  make  a  new  man  of  him  as  far  as 
clothes  could  do  the  trick.  Many  garments  lay 
before  him,  wisely  culled  by  the  united  judgments 
of  master  and  man,  and  in  a  final  selection  from 
these  Dennis  was  now  persuaded  to  garb  himself. 

It  was  not  to  be  denied  that  Dennis  made  really 
quite  a  pretty  figure  in  his  rig  as  a  fine  gentleman. 
Mr.  Fenny  eyed  him  approvingly;  Mr.  Sparrow 
eyed  him  approvingly;  in  so  far  as  he  might  be  said 
to  be  their  handiwork  they  applauded  him.  Though 
he  was  a  tall  lad  of  his  hands,  he  was  no  taller  than 
Mr.  Fenny,  and  as  far  as  length  went,  Mr.  Penny's 
garments  suited  him  well  enough.  Before  he  left 
Ireland  he  was  of  somewhat  stouter  build  than  the 
London  fine  gentleman,  and  then  it  would  have 
taken  some  little  humoring  and  adjusting  to  fit 
him  satisfactorily  from  Mr.  Fenny's  wardrobe. 
But  the  evil  days  in  London,  the  days  of  cold  and 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

want,  the  evil  nights  of  London,  the  night  of  spong- 
ing in  taverns  and  sleeping  behind  bulkheads  had 
done  their  work  in  thinning  him  and  making  him 
the  likelier  model  for  the  pains  of  Mr.  Fenny  and 
Mr.  Sparrow.  Now  their  task  was  done,  and  well 
done,  and  the  young  Irishman  looked  mighty  fine 
in  raiment  of  a  kind  that  he  had  never  worn  before. 
Even  in  his  Dublin  days  his  habiliments  were  of 
the  sober,  modest  kind  that  the  son  of  a  well-to-do 
farmer  would  naturally  affect,  and  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  fine  array  that  was  Mr.  Penny's 
daily  wear.  However,  his  natural  adaptability  and 
the  native  ease  of  his  carriage  enabled  him  to  sport 
his  fine  feathers,  unfamiliar  as  they  were,  with  an 
air  of  familiarity. 

Peregrine  Fenny  was  justly  renowned  for  his  ex- 
cellent taste  in  dress,  and  though  he  did  not  con- 
sider that  it  was,  as  it  were,  inherent  in  obedience 
to  Crania's  commands  that  he  should  endow  his 
newly  found  friend  with  the  best  treasures  of  his 
wardrobe,  the  nobles  and  glories  of  his  tallboy,  he 
saw  to  it  that  the  young  Irishman's  costume  was  of 
a  kind  that  for  happiness  of  cut  and  suavity  of 
color  should  show  him  off  to  the  best  advantage. 
He  had  a  double  reason  for  this  precision.  In  the 
first  place,  he  knew  that  Grania  would  appreciate 
very  keenly  the  way  in  which  he  had  carried  out 
her  wishes,  and  he  sought,  therefore,  to  requite  him- 
self commendably.  In  the  second  place,  the  artist 
in  Mr.  Fenny  was  animated  by  his  task.  In  dress- 
232 


A   CHANGE    OF    CLOTHES 

ing  Dennis  Tirowen  for  his  debut  in  the  world,  Mr. 
Fenny  was,  as  it  were,  dressing  him  for  himself. 
The  well-proportioned  body,  the  well-proportioned 
limbs  of  the  Irishman,  felicitously  molded  by  Mr. 
Penny's  clothes,  revealed  Mr.  Fenny  to  himself  as 
never  yet  a  mirror  could  do.  In  the  rehabilitated 
Dennis  Mr.  Fenny  seemed  to  behold  his  living 
image,  and  beholding,  very  greatly  to  admire.  His 
mind  reverted  with  a  tender  melancholy  to  his 
earlier  days,  when  the  garden  of  pleasure  first 
opened  its  rose-garlanded  gates  for  him,  and  when 
he  first  realized  the  philosophy  of  a  fine  body  in 
fine  clothes.  So  he  surveyed  Tirowen  in  a  rapture, 
seeing  there  himself  as  he  had  been,  as  he  was, 
and  as  he  long  hoped  to  be,  and  he  enjoyed  the 
study  amazingly,  and  made  poor  Dennis  stand  this 
way  and  that  way,  walk  thus  and  sit  so,  that  he 
might  taste  to  the  full  this  unexpected  pleasure. 

The  young  Irishman  was  a  little  shy  at  first 
during  the  process  of  transition,  and  his  reluctance 
only  surrendered  to  the  eagerness  of  his  rekindled 
desire  to  meet  some  of  the  members  of  that  bright 
world  whose  distant  light  had  lured  him  to  disaster, 
that  bright  world  which  he  seemed  to  have  lost,  but 
which  he  now  again  longed  to  conquer.  Hopes  that 
had  long  been  buried,  ambitions  that  had  been 
drowned  in  taverns,  began  to  revive,  to  reassert 
themselves,  and  to  warm  his  heart.  The  dreams 
of  victory  which  he  had  dreamed  so  often  in  his 
wanderings  among  the  Kerry  hills,  the  dreams  which 
233 


THE    FAIR    JRISH    MAID 

had  been  so  rudely  dissipated  In  the  slums  and 
alleys  of  the  great  implacable  city,  began  to  paint 
themselves  anew  in  lovelier  colors  upon  his  mind. 
His  degradation  was  but  skin-deep,  and  he  was  still 
shrewd  enough  to  recognize  the  force  of  Crania's 
reasoning  and  the  wisdom  of  her  counsels.  He  would 
have  enjoyed  well  enough  to  triumph  over  society 
clad  in  the  simple  garments  of  a  rustic — so,  perhaps, 
his  simple  vanity  would  have  been  most  fully  flat- 
tered— but  he  was  ready  to  admit  that  London  might 
be  wooed  and  won  more  decorously  in  a  gala  suit. 
Indeed,  when  the  transformation  was  completed 
and  he  saw  himself  in  Mr.  Penny's  long  mirror  he 
was  very  well  content  with  the  change,  and  thanks 
to  a  certain  mimetic  quality  in  his  composition,  he 
carried  himself  as  if  he  had  been  used  to  handsome 
garments  all  his  days.  The  soothing  influence  of  a 
clean  skin,  a  short  sleep,  and  a  set  of  comely  gar- 
ments had  restored  to  him  much  of  the  self-con- 
fidence that  had  been  so  sadly  bruised  and  battered 
in  London.  He  really  felt  as  he  surveyed  his  re- 
flected person  that  he  was  justified  in  entertaining 
anew  the  highest  hopes  of  triumph.  When,  there- 
fore, Mr.  Fenny  told  his  guest  that  it  was  time  for 
them  to  be  returning  to  Ashford  House,  it  was  with 
no  outward  show  of  trepidation  that  Mr.  Dennis 
accompanied  his  deputy  Samaritan  to  the  waiting 
coach. 


XIII 

THE    DINNER   PARTY 

THE  great  dining-room  of  Ashford  House  was 
one  of  the  proudest  glories  of  that  magnificent 
mansion.  On  its  walls  the  portraits  of  the  young 
spendthrift  ancestors,  happily  rescued  from  exile 
by  Crania's  gold  and  Lord  Cloyne's  acumen, 
smiled  or  frowned  according  to  their  humor  upon 
the  strangers  about  the  board.  Holbein  and  Por- 
bus  had  portrayed  the  servants  of  the  polygamist 
and  the  Virgin.  The  Lord  Ashford  that  had 
obeyed  the  Caledonian  Solomon  looked  as  wise  as 
his  master.  There  were  those  there  that  had 
fought  for  their  kings  at  Edgehill  and  Chester,  and 
Dunbar,  and  at  Worcester,  and  at  Boyne,  and  be- 
neath these  ever,  by  Crania's  orders,  big  bowls  of 
hot-house  roses  bloomed.  Across  the  canvas  of  one 
portrait  a  grim  bar  of  black  paint  had  been  smeared. 
This  was  the  portrait  of  one  of  the  house  that  had 
gone  for  Parliament  and  Oliver  against  throne  and 
Charles,  and  had  been  thus  defaced  by  command  of 
the  late  Lord  Ashford,  that  was  as  valiant  a  Jacobite 
as  a  man  should  be  that  was  old  enough  to  remem- 
ber the  tragedy  of  the  forty-five,  and  would  as  soon 
235 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

have  gone  to  hell  as  to  Carlton  House.  There  was 
another  portrait  that  was  defaced  in  the  same 
fashion,  but  even  more  emphatically,  for  this  pic- 
ture had  two  broad  bars  of  condemnatory  black 
drawn  across  it.  This  was  the  painting  which  it 
most  amused  My  Lord  Cloyne  to  regard,  for  it  was 
the  presentment  of  that  ancestor  of  Lord  Ashford's 
whose  renegade  defection  from  the  cause  of  King 
James  the  Second  to  the  cause  of  William  of  Orange 
had  caused  Lupus  Loveless,  of  unpleasant  memory, 
to  play  the  rat  in  his  turn. 

For  long  enough  these  solemn  images  of  stalwart 
men,  and  of  their  companions,  the  dear,  adorable 
women,  whom  they  had  loved  and  hated  and 
cheated,  and  that  had  loved  and  hated  and  cheated 
them,  had  gazed  gravely  and  gloomily  down  upon 
an  almost  deserted  room.  The  late  Lord  Ashford 
detesting  his  age  and  despising  its  politics,  kingless 
since  the  death  of  Charles  the  Ninth,  and  well-nigh 
countryless  save  when  the  struggle  with  Napoleon 
had  reminded  him  that  if  he  was  a  Jacobite  he  was- 
also  an  Englishman — the  late  Lord  Ashford  enter- 
tained no  company  in  St.  James's  Square.  He 
always  dined  alone  in  the  great  room,  always  drank 
in  solitude  his  loyal  toasts,  "The  King  Over  the 
Water"  and  "The  Little  Gentleman  in  Black 
Velvet,"  and  was  found  one  night  by  his  frightened 
servants  sitting  very  quiet  at  the  head  of  his  table 
with  a  broken  wine-glass  in  his  hand.  He  had 
drunk  his  last  toast,  he  had  entertained  his  last 
236 


THE    DINNER    PARTY 

guest.  He  left  behind  him  his  fame  as  a  con- 
noisseur, and  his  wonderful  collections,  and  his 
great  wealth.  The  great  wealth  soon  vanished 
through  the  fingers  of  his  heir,  and  the  great  col- 
lections would  have  followed  suit  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  advent  of  My  Lord  Cloyne.  Then  the 
family  portraits,  that  had  come  so  near  to  seeing  no 
more  feasts,  suddenly  found  themselves  presiding 
again  over  joyous  and  crowded  banquets,  and  their 
grave  countenances  seemed  to  soften  and  to  smile 
under  the  influence  of  the  long  unfamiliar  lights, 
the  long  unfamiliar  laughter,  the  long  unfamiliar 
flow  of  wine  and  wit.  But  Mr.  Fenny  always  in- 
sisted that  the  portraits  looked  their  pleasantest  on 
such  an  evening  as  this,  of  one  of  Crania's  little 
dinner  parties,  for  then  they  were  able  with  less 
distraction  to  please  themselves  with  staring  at 
Crania's  beauty. 

To-night  the  portraits  looking  down  upon  Crania 
in  her  beauty  looked  also  amiably  enough  on  My 
Lord  Cloyne,  as  if  they  were  aware  that  he  had 
saved  them  in  their  stations,  and  were  accordingly 
grateful.  They  looked  down  upon  My  Lady 
Cloyne,  still  amazingly  handsome;  upon  Lady 
Doubble,  very  brisk  and  vivacious,  as  a  woman 
may  well  be  that  sits  at  a  small  table  with  no  less 
than  three  of  her  lovers. 

At  these  small  informal  feasts  of  Crania's  she  was 
never  at  the  pains  to  preserve  an  equality  of  propor- 
tion between  her  male  guests  and  her  female  guests, 
237 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

so  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  past,  if  the  feast  had 
been  carried  out  as  Grania  had  originally  planned 
it,  would  have  had  no  more  women  to  stare  at.  But 
at  the  last  moment,  after  the  resurrection  of  Dennis, 
Grania  had  despatched  messages  here  and  there  to 
certain  of  her  fashionable  friends  who  might  be 
disengaged,  inviting  them  to  come  to  dinner  and 
meet  a  countryman  of  hers  who  was  going  to  aston- 
ish London.  Invitations  to  Ashford  House  were 
regarded  as  almost  as  obeyable  as  a  royal  command, 
so  most  of  Crania's  missives  hit  the  gold,  and  her 
table  to-night  was  more  crowded  and  her  banquet  a 
more  elaborate  business  than  she  had  intended. 
The  names  of  these  newcomers  do  not  concern  this 
chronicle,  and  even  Mr.  Redacre  has  only  men- 
tioned a  few  of  them.  The  ancient  portraits  looked 
upon  them  as  steadily  as  they  looked  upon  the  others. 
But  this  narrative  is  only  concerned  with  those 
familiar  personages  whom  the  portraits  regarded. 
Yet  such  interest  as  they  showed  did  not  seem  to 
suffer.  They  looked  down  upon  Captain  the  Hon- 
orable Curtius  Loveless,  very  gallant  and  bland, 
very  careful  to  adore  his  hostess  without  for  a  mo- 
ment allowing  adoration  to  overpass  the  limits  of 
discretion  and  become  impertinence.  They  looked 
down  upon  Mr.  Rubie,  earnest  and  sturdy,  full  of 
sympathy  with  the  painted  gentlemen  with  the 
black  bars  of  disfigurement  across  their  persons — 
Cromwell  and  William  of  Orange  were  Mr.  Rubie's 
two  great  heroes  of  the  past,  as  Mr.  Burke  and  Mr. 
238 


THE    DINNER    PARTY 

FOX  were  his  heroes  of  the  present — and  very  alertly 
aware  and  resentful  of  Captain  Loveless's  adoration. 
They  looked  down  upon  Mr.  Peregrine  Fenny,  very 
fine  and  bright,  his  eyes  twinkling  with  suppressed 
merriment  at  a  comedy  to  which  he  alone  of  the 
guests  possessed  a  partial  clue.  They  looked  down 
also — and  there  ought  to  have  been  wonder  in  their 
look — upon  a  stranger  to  their  fellowship,  to  their 
traditions,  their  prejudices,  upon  a  young  man  that 
was  handsome  and  handsomely  clad,  but  that 
for  all  his  fine  clothes  came  to  their  aristocratic 
gaze  plainly  of  a  class  that  had  never  been  privileged 
to  sit  at  table  with  gentlefolk  at  Ashford  House  be- 
fore. Fellows  of  yeoman  stock  had  proved  ere  now 
that  they  had  their  place  in  English  history,  but  that 
place  was  at  the  heels  of  their  liege  lords  when  they 
went  a-fighting,  at  home  or  abroad,  and  never  at  the 
side  of  those  liege  lords  when  they  met  at  board  and 
passed  the  wine.  In  many  a  well-fought  field 
abroad,  in  many  a  well-fought  field  at  home,  the  son 
of  the  soil  had  done  well  for  those  he  served  at 
Crecy  and  at  Poictiers,  for  the  White  Rose  or  the 
Red,  at  Agincourt  and  Orleans,  for  king  or  for 
Parliament,  for  the  Son  of  the  Man  or  for  the  brewer, 
for  Monmouth,  or  for  James.  But  the  privilege  to 
be  killed  for  a  cause  did  not  carry  with  it  the 
privilege  to  sit  at  meat  with  the  captains  of  that 
cause,  and  to  be  smiled  on  by  their  womankind. 
This  is  why,  to  the  whimsical  mind,  the  family 
portraits  on  the  walls  of  the  dining-room  at  Ash- 
239 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

ford  House  seemed  to  look  askance  at  Mr.  Dennis 
Tirowen,  to  discover  his  lack  of  gentility  in  spite  of 
his  fine  clothes,  and  to  sneer  at  him  superciliously. 

Whatever  the  ancient  portraits  seemed  to  think 
or  whatever  their  originals  very  probably  would 
have  thought  of  the  appearance  in  their  society  of 
such  a  one  as  Dennis  Tirowen,  it  is  certain  that  his 
presence  caused  very  mixed  emotions  among  the 
company  who  were  seated  at  Crania's  table  that 
night.  With  the  exception  of  Mr.  Fenny,  that  was 
Crania's  accomplice  in  her  innocent  little  plot,  only 
Lord  Cloyne  and  Mr.  Rubie  had  consciously  seen 
Dennis  before.  My  lord  knew  little  more  of  Dennis 
than  he  had  admitted  to  Mr.  Rubie  in  the  course  of 
his  conversation  at  the  foot  of  the  Round  Tower,  on 
the  memorable  day  of  the  change  in  Crania's  con- 
dition. Mr.  Rubie  knew  what  my  lord  had  told 
him,  with  such  additional  knowledge  as  his  very 
brief  and  scarcely  agreeable  interview  with  the  man 
that  carried  a  fiddle  had  afforded.  Both  were  now 
very  certainly  surprised  to  find  Dennis  Tirowen  in 
town,  a  welcome  guest  at  Ashford  House  and  dressed 
for  all  the  world  like  a  gentleman.  Mr.  Rubie 
scented  a  mystification,  and  resented  it.  Why 
should  a  Kerry  farmer,  he  asked  himself  sourly,  be 
suddenly  transformed  into  a  London  dandy,  unless 
at  Miss  O'Hara's  pleasure  and  at  Miss  O'Hara's 
cost.  Jealousy  gnawed  at  his  vitals;  but  though  he 
was  not  aware  of  the  fact,  he  did  not  suffer  alone. 

Lord  Cloyne  and  his  lady  accepted  Dennis  on 
240 


THE    DINNER   PARTY 

Crania's  presentation  with  imperturbable  affability. 
They  too  felt  sure  that  Grania  was  paying  the  way 
of  the  young  Kerry  farmer.  They  would  have  cared 
little  if  Grania  had  been  a  different  kind  of  woman. 
Had  she  been  as  wanton  as  fashionable,  her  enter- 
tainment of  a  rustic  lover  would  have  been  no  more 
than  a  laughable  natural  serio-comic  pastoral  such 
as  any  fine  lady  had  a  right  to  indulge  in  if  it  pleased 
her  whim.  But  my  lord  and  lady  knew  Crania's 
impeccable  virtue,  and  in  consequence  feared  the 
worst. 

Captain  Curtius  showed  no  signs  of  care  at  the 
presence  of  the  stranger,  but  his  temper  raged  behind 
the  shelter  of  his  smiling  face.  He  was  skilled  to 
read  the  thoughts  of  women,  and  he  guessed  at  once 
that  Crania's  thoughts  of  the  newcomer  were  very 
kind  if  not  the  kindest.  He  had  for  so  long  be- 
lieved himself  to  be  steering  a  safe  course  to  a  likely 
haven  that  this  sudden  menace  to  his  prospects — 
for  he  knew  it  to  be  a  menace — startled  and  amazed 
him.  He  showed  no  signs,  however,  of  either  per- 
turbation or  annoyance,  but  greeted  Mr.  Tirowen 
with  a  charming  show  of  amiability  and  caught  an 
opportunity  to  whisper  in  Crania's  ear  some  words 
in  praise  of  Dennis's  appearance.  His  words 
pleased  Grania,  and  her  pleasure  enraged  the  speak- 
er, but  he  kept  his  irritation  to  himself.  He  was  a 
good  player  at  all  the  games  of  life,  and  could  en- 
counter a  run  of  ill-luck  with  tireless  patience  and 
a  smiling  face.  Up  to  this  moment  he  had  feared 
241 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

no  ill-luck  in  the  cunning  course  of  his  wooing  of 
the  Irish  heiress.  He  had  seen  no  rival  who  was  for 
a  moment  to  be  feared;  he  knew  that  Grania  was 
more  than  inclined  to  like  him,  even  that  she  did 
positively  like  him.  Captain  Curtius  was  skilful 
in  the  wiles  which  win  a  man  the  liking  of  women, 
but  he  knew  that  the  wiles  are  not  the  same  for  all 
birds,  and  he  baited  his  snare  for  Grania  with  that 
air  of  comradeship,  of  brotherliness,  which  had  thus 
far  served  him  so  well.  But  now,  as  it  seemed,  just 
when  everything  was  going  so  well,  his  precious 
plan  was  menaced  by  the  irruption  of  this  wild 
fellow  from  Ireland,  about  whom  Lord  Cloyne  was 
able  to  give  him  a  little  whispered  information  just 
before  dinner.  Captain  Curtius,  comparing  him- 
self with  Dennis,  was  not  alarmed  by  the  com- 
parison, but  he  was  annoyed  at  having  to  make  it, 
and  he  watched  and  waited  for  the  chance  to  do 
the  intruder  an  ill  turn. 

Mr.  Pointdexter,  beholding  Dennis  for  the  first 
time  and  well  aware  of  Miss  O'Hara's  interest  in 
him,  studied  the  young  man  closely,  without  appear- 
ing to  pay  him  more  than  the  most  casual  attention. 
No  hint  of  what  Mr.  Pointdexter  may  have  thought 
of  the  poet  showed  itself  on  his  impassive  counte- 
nance, but  he  had  been  careful  on  being  presented  to 
Dennis  in  the  drawing-room  to  greet  him  with  a 
display  of  amiability  which  was  unusual  in  the 
lawyer,  and  for  which  Grania  rewarded  him  with 
a  grateful  glance. 

242 


THE    DINNER    PARTY 

As  for  Grania,  she  appeared  to  be  quite  contented 
with  the  appearance  and  demeanor  of  her  lover. 
In  her  place  as  hostess  she  watched  Dennis  from 
afar  with  an  expression  in  which  approval  of  his 
bearing,  under  conditions  so  unfamiliar  and  un- 
expected, mingled  with  a  humorous  appreciation  of 
the  little  comedy  which  her  sudden  impulse  had 
improvised.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  her  in- 
terest in  Dennis  would  be  no  secret  to  any  keen 
observer,  and  if  it  had  it  would  not  have  altered 
her  action  in  the  least.  She  was  too  glad  to  have 
Dennis  back  again,  restored  to  her  from  the  un- 
known, to  care  if  her  gladness  was  evident  to  others. 
So  she  allowed  her  admiration  to  show  itself  un- 
checked, quite  content  to  let  others  see  it  if  they 
chose,  so  long  as  Dennis  was  aware  of  it  and 
was  encouraged  by  it  to  face  his  unusual  or- 
deal. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  appearance  of 
the  young  man,  affecting  those  present  in  different 
degrees  of  attraction  or  the  reverse,  had  made  a 
profound  impression  upon  the  susceptible  mind  of 
Lady  Doubble.  As  the  antiquarian  banker  was  not 
present,  Lady  Doubble  had  no  need  to  exercise  any 
restraint  over  her  feelings,  and  she  allowed  her  ad- 
miration for  the  stranger  to  manifest  itself  in  many 
expressing  and  approving  glances  after  the  first 
moment  when  she  caught  sight  of  him.  Lady 
Doubble  had  a  wide  range  of  taste  and  a  receptive 
heart,  and  she  was  always  ready  at  any  moment 
243 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  find  a  place  in  it  for  any  commendable  gentle- 
man, but  not  for  a  long  time  had  she  felt  so  much 
enthusiasm  as  she  experienced  in  studying  the 
handsome  face  and  fine  figure  of  Dennis  as  he 
showed  himself  in  Crania's  golden  room  decked 
out  in  his  borrowed  splendor.  To  do  her  justice, 
if  Dennis  had  come  into  her  presence  clad  in  the 
shabby  clothes  he  had  so  lately  discarded  she 
would  have  been  scarcely,  if  at  all,  less  willing  to 
admire  him  and  make  her  admiration  patent.  But 
Dennis  figged  out  in  the  brilliant  plumage  vouch- 
safed to  him  by  Mr.  Fenny  was  able  to  display  him- 
self to  the  best  possible  advantage,  and  Lady 
Doubble  ogled  him  in  a  rapture.  She  had  insisted 
in  the  drawing-room  on  his  being  presented  to  her 
at  once,  and  immediately  made  a  dead  set  at 
him. 

Dennis,  desperately  struggling  with  the  shyness 
inevitable  to  such  a  spirit  in  such  a  situation,  found 
himself  pretty  soon  at  ease  with  the  lady.  She  was 
still  young,  she  was  still  good-looking,  and  she  made 
him  flagrantly  aware  that  she  appreciated  his  own 
good  looks.  There  is  always  something  compli- 
mentary in  being  made  violent  love  to  by  a  pretty 
woman,  and,  though  Dennis  had  no  experience  of  the 
type  of  wooer  that  Lady  Doubble  represented,  he 
was  not  unwilling  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game.  An 
Irishman,  and  above  all  an  Irishman  that  is  by  way 
of  being  a  poet,  can  generally  manage  to  say 
gracious  words  to  a  gracious  woman,  and  when  the 
244 


THE    DINNER   PARTY 

lava  of  Lady  Doubble's  admiration  had  thawed  the 
last  icicle  of  Dennis's  reserve  the  two  began  to  get 
on  together  very  well  indeed.  Curtius  Loveless 
looked  on  and  smiled.  He  was  too  old  a  friend  of 
Lady  Doubble's  not  to  understand  all  the  manoeuvers 
of  her  intrigues.  Mr.  Fenny,  that  had  been,  and, 
indeed,  still  was,  one  of  Lady  Doubble's  favorites, 
also  looked  on  and  also  smiled.  Grania  for  her 
part  was  amused  and  not  annoyed.  It  would  never 
have  occurred  to  her  to  object  to  her  lover  carrying 
himself  gallantly  toward  an  admiring  woman.  She 
was  perfectly  aware  of  Lady  Doubble's  wishes  and 
hopes,  but  she  had  every  confidence  in  Dennis  and 
no  fear  for  the  results. 

Lady  Doubble's  attentions  during  the  progress  of 
the  meal  had  had  a  great  effect  in  putting  Dennis 
at  his  ease  in  this  his  first  appearance  in  fine  com- 
pany and  in  spiriting  him  with  the  self-confidence 
that  was  necessary  to  carry  him  to  success.  But  its 
extravagancies  had  another  effect  that  was  not  so 
fortunate.  His  quick  and  impressionable  nature, 
responding  loudly  to  any  stimulus,  began,  as  it  were, 
to  reciprocate  the  extravagance  of  his  companion, 
and  when  his  original  diffidence  had  shifted  into 
assurance  the  assurance  increased  to  a  somewhat 
aggressive  self-assertion.  At  the  beginning,  while 
his  shyness  was  still  thick  upon  him,  he  had  carried 
himself  with  reticence  and  discretion,  and  the 
modesty  of  his  bearing  commended  itself  to  the 
most  critical  of  his  spectators.  But  under  Lady 

17  245 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Doubble's  influence  he  began  to  change  for  the 
worse.  Having  learned  to  talk  freely,  he  now  began 
to  talk  noisily,  to  laugh  more  loudly  than  he  should, 
to  gesticulate  with  unnecessary  vehemence. 


XIV 

THE    UNBURIED   CITY 

RANIA  did  not  have  cause  to  mark  the  de- 
clension  of  Dennis.  In  the  first  place  because 
she  was  in  no  mood  to  mark  anything  to  his  or  any 
man's  disadvantage  in  that  hour.  Her  heart  was 
dancing  mad  with  happiness,  her  mouth  was  singing 
mad  with  mirth.  If  Dennis  were,  indeed,  drifting 
perilously  toward  the  uncharted  seas  of  ebriety, 
shall  it  be  denied  that  Grania  was  a  little  intoxicated 
too,  and  with  a  headier  influence  than  wine  ?  The 
girl  was,  as  it  might  be  said,  wonder-drunk;  her 
spirits  were  wild  and  merry,  and  if  she  rejoiced  in 
the  return  of  the  prodigal  she  rejoiced  also  in  the 
comic  effects  of  that  return  upon  the  company  that 
were  privileged  to  witness  it  and  eat  veal.  She 
could  guess  well  enough  what  every  one  at  the  table 
was  thinking — every  one,  that  is,  with  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Pointdexter,  whose  thoughts  were  never 
lightly  legible.  It  diverted  her  to  dwell  upon  the 
irritation,  the  mystification,  the  consternation  that 
were  concealed  by  the  smooth  faces  around  her — 
the  Cloynes,  Captain  Curtius,  Mr.  Rubie,  Lady 
Doubble — she  could  interpret  with  ease  the  effect 
247 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

that  the  appearance  of  Dennis  had  upon  them,  and 
the  interpretation  amused  her.  It  amused  her  so 
much  that  it  served  to  distract  her  attention  from 
the  waxing  hilarity  of  Dennis.  If  she  noticed  at  all 
that  he  grew  in  gaiety,  she  was  no  more  than  con- 
tent, for  she  came  of  a  breed  of  women  that  like 
their  lovers  to  be  jovial  and  show  a  bold  front. 

Yet  she  must  perforce  have  discerned  the  over- 
growth of  Dennis's  mirth  but  for  an  intervening 
circumstance.  As  the  dinner  drew  to  its  close  the 
butler  came  to  Crania's  chair  and  whispered  to  her 
that  Mr.  Heritage  had  arrived.  Now,  Grania  did 
not  wish  to  ask  Mr.  Heritage  to  join  the  party  in 
the  dining-room,  as  she  desired  to  have  some  private 
talk  with  him  before  bringing  him  and  Dennis  to- 
gether. Therefore  she  sent  word  that  she  would  be 
obliged  if  Mr.  Heritage  would  attend  her  in  the 
Silver  Saloon.  A  few  minutes  later  she  caught 
Lady  Cloyne's  eye,  and  Lady  Cloyne,  reading  her 
purpose,  rose,  and  the  ladies  left  the  gentlemen  to 
their  wine.  Grania  established  Lady  Cloyne  and 
Lady  Doubble  with  her  other  women  guests  in  the 
Gold  Room,  explained  her  necessity  of  leaving 
them  for  a  few  minutes,  and  went  to  join  Mr. 
Heritage. 

Mr.  Heritage  rose  as  Grania  entered  and  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her.  Grania  saw  that  he  carried  a 
roll  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Madam,"  he  cried,  triumphantly,  "I  have  found 
the  play." 

248 


THE    UNBURIED    CITY 

"  Sir,"  Crania  cried,  more  triumphantly  still,  "  I 
have  found  the  author." 

To  ease  the  astonishment  painted  on  the  mana- 
ger's face,  Grania  told  him  what  had  happened,  or, 
rather,  told  him  a  version  of  what  had  happened. 
She  said  nothing  of  her  lover's  trials,  of  his  poverty, 
of  his  rags.  She  merely  said  that  he  had  been 
abroad  and  unable  on  account  of  his  health  to  com- 
municate with  his  friends,  but  that  he  was  now 
in  London,  where  he  intended  to  remain  for  the 
present. 

Mr.  Heritage  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  the 
news  and  congratulated  Grania  in  this  fortunate  and 
timely  solution  of  the  problem  that  had  distressed 
her.  He  on  his  side  had  been  lucky  enough  to  find 
the  play  after  a  very  brief  search  among  his  papers 
at  the  theater.  At  that  moment  he  held  in  his  hand 
the  manuscript  of  "The  Buried  City." 

Grania  looked  at  him  and  at  the  manuscript  he 
brandished  eagerly.  Had  he  examined  it?  she 
asked;  had  he  formed  an  opinion  as  to  its  merits  ? 

Mr.  Heritage,  it  seemed,  had  done  both.  He  had 
read  the  play  very  carefully,  and  as  the  result  of  his 
study  he  had  formed  a  very  decided  opinion  upon 
it.  That  opinion  was  apparently  highly  favorable 
to  "The  Buried  City"  as  a  poetical  composition, 
and  even  as  a  piece  intended  for  dramatic  repre- 
sentation. 

Crania's  cheeks  glowed  with  pleasure  as  she  heard 
him  speak  thus,  but  her  elation  was  suddenly  tem- 
249 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

pered  by  a  rapid  change  in  Mr.  Heritage's  manner. 
The  manager  appeared  constrained;  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  less  pleasant  words  to  say.  Pressed  by 
Grania  to  explain  himself,  he  declared,  after  some 
little  hesitation,  that  the  difficulty  that  lay  in  the  way 
of  his  producing  the  play  at  the  Rotundo,  much  as 
he  would  like  to  do  so,  was  that  "The  Buried  City" 
would  be  a  very  expensive  piece  to  put  on  the  stage. 
If  it  were  not  done  full  justice  to  in  the  matter  of 
costumes  and  scenery,  its  chances  of  success  would 
be  gravely  imperiled.  If  it  were  done  full  justice  to 
in  the  matter  of  costumes  and  scenery  it  would  in- 
volve a  risk  too  great  for  Mr.  Heritage  to  permit 
himself  to  take. 

Grania  listened  quietly  while  the  manager  told  his 
tale,  asked  a  few  questions  which  proved  she  had  a 
practical  mind  even  in  dealing  with  matters  that 
were  unfamiliar  to  her,  and  then  made  Mr.  Heritage 
a  straightforward  proposal.  She  would  find  all  the 
money  for  the  most  lavish  production  imaginable  of 
"The  Buried  City"  and  for  the  payment  of  certain 
generous  sums  to  the  author,  who  was,  of  course,  to 
know  nothing  of  Crania's  interest  in  the  under- 
taking. She  would  further  undertake  to  guarantee 
Mr.  Heritage  against  any  loss  in  connection  with 
the  production  of  the  piece,  which  he  was  to  keep  on 
the  boards  for  a  certain  time,  whether  the  public 
came  or  stayed  away. 

Mr.  Heritage,  after  a  few  seconds'  consideration, 
indulged  in  for  form's  sake,  accepted  this  amazing 
250 


THE    UNBURIED    CITY 

and  advantageous  proposal.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
would  not  have  entertained  the  proposition  if  he 
had  thought  "The  Buried  City"  a  bad  piece.  But 
he  thought  it  quite  a  good  piece.  It  was  out  of  the 
common;  but  Mr.  Heritage  had  intelligence  enough, 
in  the  first  place,  to  recognize  that  this  was  not 
necessarily  in  itself  a  defect,  and  in  the  second  place, 
to  rejoice  at  the  opportunity  thus  unexpectedly 
afforded  him  of  being  able  to  produce  an  uncom- 
mon play  on  the  boards  of  the  Rotundo,  and  thus 
gain  all  the  credit  of  an  act  of  intellectual  daring  at 
no  expense  whatever  to  himself.  So  he  assured 
Grania  that  he  would  carry  out  her  wishes  most 
carefully,  that  he  would  make  Mr.  Tirowen  the  most 
favorable  offers  for  the  right  to  produce  his  piece, 
and  that  he  would  keep  the  fact  of  his  collusion  with 
Grania  the  most  profound  secret.  These  prelimi- 
naries being  agreed  to  between  the  two  high  contract- 
ing parties,  Mr.  Heritage  accepted  his  hostess's 
invitation  to  accompany  her  to  the  Gold  Room  and 
drink  there  his  promised  cup  of  coffee. 


XV 

RECOGNITION    OF   GENIUS 

MR.  HERITAGE  had  scarcely  settled  himself 
comfortably  to  his  coffee  and  the  companion- 
ship of  the  ladies — a  companionship  in  which  he 
ever  believed  himself  destined  to  excel — when  the 
noise  of  ascending  feet  upon  the  stair  and  the  buzz 
of  mounting  voices  announced  that  the  gentlemen 
had  left  the  dining-room  and  their  wine.  In  an- 
other minute  they  entered  the  room  in  very  differ- 
ing conditions  of  spirit.  To  consider  only  those 
essential  to  the  narrative,  Mr.  Pointdexter  and  Mr. 
Rubie  were,  as  was  their  wont,  as  cool  and  sober 
as  when  they  had  sat  down  to  table.  My  lord  and 
his  brother,  as  was  their  wont,  had  drunk  deeply, 
but  carried  their  liquor  gallantly  and  showed  no 
marked  signs  of  their  potations.  Indeed,  there  was 
only  one  of  the  company  that  seemed  distinctly 
changed  since  the  beginning  of  the  banquet,  and 
that  one  unfortunately  was  Dennis  Tirowen.  The 
poor  devil  was  really  more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed 
for  what  had  happened. 

After  the  ladies  had  quitted  the  table,  Dennis, 
deprived  of  the  support  of  Lady  Double,  felt  some- 
252 


RECOGNITION    OF    GENIUS 

thing  of  his  early  embarrassment  returning  to  him 
when  he  found  himself  alone  with  the  men.  To 
repress  this  embarrassment  he  rapidly  responded 
to  the  offers  of  wine  with  which  he  was  plied  by 
Captain  Curtius,  who  meant  to  be  mischievous. 
My  Lord  Cloyne  looked  on  and  smiled  faintly,  not 
disapproving.  He  resented  the  presence  of  this 
Kerry  bumpkin — for  so  he  styled  him — and  was 
willing  enough  to  see  him  degraded  in  the  eyes  of 
his  hostess.  As  for  Mr.  Fenny,  he  perceived  a 
divided  duty.  He  knew  that  Grania  would  wish 
him  to  act  well  toward  her  queer  friend,  but  on  the 
other  hand  he  had  his  own  interests  to  consider,  and 
his  own  interests  ran  with  those  of  Captain  Curtius, 
and  were  intimately  associated  with  a  promised 
thousand  pounds.  Wherefore  he  made  no  serious 
effort  to  keep  Dennis  sober. 

Mr.  Rubie  drank  little;  Mr.  Pointdexter  drank 
little;  my  lord  drank  much  and  carried  it  well. 
Dennis  was  in  dangerous  case.  He  had  intended 
when  he  came  to  Ashford  House  to  be  very  wary 
with  respect  to  the  wine-cup,  but  his  intentions  had 
steadily  melted  away  under  the  influence  of  good 
cheer  and  a  show  of  good-fellowship,  and  as  his 
eyes  brightened  and  his  cheeks  flushed  he  became 
momentarily  more  demonstrative  and  more  asser- 
tive. If  he  had  been  gay  enough  when  Grania  and 
the  ladies  had  quitted  the  room,  he  grew  gayer 
thereafter,  and  was  no  less  than  rotten  ripe  when 
the  time  came  to  leave  the  dining-room. 
253 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

As  soon  as  the  gentlemen  entered  the  room 
Grania  rose,  and,  advancing  toward  Dennis,  laid 
her  hand  gently  upon  his  arm.  She  noticed  that 
his  cheeks  were  flushed  and  that  his  eyes  sparkled, 
but  such  were  too  much  the  customary  signs  by 
which  fine  gentlemen  were  wont  in  those  days  to 
convey  to  a  hostess  their  approval  of  their  cheer 
to  strike  Grania  as  peculiar.  It  was  the  mode  to 
drink  much  at  meals;  it  did  not  occur  to  Grania 
to  expect  that  Dennis  would  do  other  than  his  fellows 
did;  if  she  had  thought  about  the  matter  at  all  she 
would  have  expected  him  neither  to  abstain  nor  to 
exceed. 

"Dennis,"  she  said,  exultantly,  "Mr.  Heritage  is 
here.  Mr.  Heritage  is  most  anxious  to  speak  with 
you." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dennis  had  more  or  less  for- 
gotten about  Mr.  Heritage.  His  wine-kindled 
spirits,  flattered  by  the  reception  his  sallies  had  been 
accorded  in  the  dining-room,  led  him  to  accept 
himself  already  as  an  approved  social  success,  and 
he  saw  himself  mounting  in  the  course  of  a  sin- 
gle evening  the  throne  of  Mr.  Moore  without  any 
troublesome  need  of  presenting  credentials.  It  had 
been  his  intention  on  returning  to  the  drawing- 
room  to  regain  the  neighborhood  of  Lady  Doubble 
and  to  renew  the  interrupted  conversation  that  he 
had  found  so  attractive  below-stairs.  It  was  not 
that  Dennis  faltered  in  the  least  in  his  allegiance  to 
Grania.  But,  to  be  truthful,  he  was  a  little  abashed 
254 


RECOGNITION    OF    GENIUS 

by  the  appearance  of  this  unfamiliar  Grania,  this 
Grania  of  silks  and  ribbons,  this  Grania  glittering 
with  jewels,  whom  he  had  last  seen  as  a  barelegged 
girl  on  a  Kerry  hillside.  He  resented  the  fact  that 
he  should  feel  such  abashment,  and  the  resentment 
throve  under  the  benignity  of  Bacchus.  Grania 
habited  like  a  great  lady,  carrying  herself  like  a 
great  lady,  swaying  easily  the  destinies  of  a  great 
house,  was  a  Grania  that  mystified  him. 

To  him  in  this  temper  the  genial  familiarity  of 
Lady  Doubble  was  amazingly  refreshing  and  in- 
spiriting. He  had  never  met,  rather  should  it  be 
said  that  he  had  never  guessed,  at  the  existence  of 
a  woman  like  Lady  Doubble  before.  In  his  Dublin 
days  he  had  been  too  seriously  inclined  to  seek  the 
society  of  the  venal  fair,  and  though  during  the 
days  of  his  degradation  in  London  he  had  plied  his 
fiddle  in  places  where  low  women  danced  foul 
dances  and  sang  foul  songs,  he  thought  of  them 
as  low  women  to  whom  vile  thoughts  and  vile 
words  came  as  part  of  their  wretched  inheritance, 
and  whom,  while  he  loathed,  he  pitied.  But  the 
blithe,  undisguised  salacity  of  the  fine  lady,  the 
briskness  with  which  she  skipped  from  innuendo 
to  a  staggering  frankness,  the  patent  admiration 
with  which  she  favored  him  and  the  nakedness  of 
its  nature,  if  it  disturbed  him  at  first,  did  not  over- 
awe him  and  ended  by  alluring.  The  wine  and  her 
smiles  allying,  Dennis  fell  readily  under  Lady 
Doubble' s  flagrant  spell,  and  found  himself  facing 
255 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

her  boldness  with  boldness  and  bandying  freedom 
with  alacrity.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  game,  but  it 
had  its  fascination  for  a  raw  youth,  to  whom  it  was 
wholly  unfamiliar,  and  he  slipped  swiftly  deeper 
and  deeper  into  its  snare.  He  was  yearning  to  play 
the  game  again  as  he  reeled  up  the  staircase,  and 
he  knew  that  the  woman  would  be  waiting  for  him 
and  willing  to  renew,  and  it  was  with  surprise  and 
even  disappointment  that  his  intentions  were  stayed 
by  Grania  with  her  news  of  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Heritage  and  of  Mr.  Heritage's  desire  to  speak 
with  him. 

The  surprise  had  the  advantage  of  shocking  him 
into  a  more  sober  mood.  His  muddled  mind 
clarified  a  little;  his  titubating  reason  regained  its 
equilibrium:  mentally  and  physically  he  stiffened 
himself  upon  unsteady  legs.  Murmuring  some 
words  expressive  of  his  gratification,  Dennis  suffered 
Grania  to  lead  him  to  where  Mr.  Heritage  was 
seated.  Fortunately  the  distance  was  not  far,  and 
Dennis,  desperately  determined  to  recapture  his 
self-control,  accomplished  the  journey  without 
disaster.  Mr.  Heritage  rose  as  the  pair  approached, 
and  after  Grania  had  presented  Dennis  he  ex- 
tended a  cordial  hand  to  the  poet. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  expansively,  "permit  me  to  con- 
gratulate you  upon  a  very  admirable  piece  of  work." 

Dennis  blushed  boyishly.  The  sweetness  of  such 
praise  from  the  great  manager  helped  to  strengthen 
him  in  his  struggle  to  recover  self-control.  "You 
256 


RECOGNITION    OF    GENIUS 

have  read  my  play  ?"  he  murmured,  and  halted, 
stammering,  uncertain  what  to  say  next. 

Mr.  Heritage  saw  that  he  was  under  the  influence 
of  liquor — so  he  expressed  Dennis's  condition  to 
himself — but  he  was  not  surprised.  "I  have  read 
'The  Buried  City,'"  he  said,  "and  I  cordially  ap- 
plaud it  and  you.  I  can  assure  you  that  it  is  sel- 
dom indeed  that  we  poor  managers  receive  from 
outside  a  work  of  such  sterling  quality.  It  recalls 
the  past,  sir,  believe  me,  it  recalls  our  golden  past." 

Dennis,  to  use  a  familiar  phrase,  could  scarcely 
believe  his  ears.  It  was  to  him,  Dennis  Tirowen, 
that  Mr.  Heritage  was  speaking.  It  was  about  him 
and  about  his  cherished  work,  "The  Buried  City," 
that  Mr.  Heritage  was  uttering  such  honeyed  words. 
He  knew  not  what  to  say. 

"I  am  indeed  delighted,"  he  faltered.  "I  do  not 
know  how  to  express  myself — " 

He  paused,  and  Mr.  Heritage  took  him  up  briskly. 

"Your  modesty,"  he  protested,  "is  no  less 
creditable  than  your  ability.  True  genius,  my  dear 
sir,  is  ever  so." 

"True  genius!"  The  words  rung  in  Dennis's 
brain,  kindling  delicious  madness.  He  was  alone 
with  Mr.  Heritage  now,  for  Grania  had  left  the  two 
men  together  after  the  introduction  and  was  occupy- 
ing herself  with  finding  amusement  for  her  other 
guests.  Various  friends  were  arriving  to  whom 
Grania  had  sent  polite  notes  that  evening  after 
Mr.  Fenny  had  taken  his  departure  with  Mr.  Dennis 
257 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Tirowen  under  his  wing.  Those  polite  notes  had 
requested  their  recipients'  call  at  Ashford  House 
after  dinner  if  their  engagements  permitted  and 
drink  a  dish  of  tea  or  coffee  with  her  and  make  the 
acquaintance  of  a  young  fellow-countryman  of  hers 
whose  ability  was  likely  to  provide  town  with  a  new 
sensation.  An  invitation  of  any  kind  to  Ashford 
House,  as  has  been  said,  was  scarcely  less  welcome 
to  the  elect  than  a  royal  command,  and  when 
coupled  with  the  promise  of  a  new  sensation  was 
indeed  irresistible.  So  the  select  few  whom  Grania 
had  chosen  to  summon  as  being  most  likely  to  serve 
her  turn  in  serving  the  interests  of  Dennis  Tirowen 
gladly  came  at  her  summons,  and,  as  Mr.  Redacre 
dryly  comments  in  his  memoirs,  they  certainly  got 
their  sensation.  Mr.  Redacre,  it  is  to  be  gathered, 
was  one  of  those  guests.  He  was  one  of  those  in- 
dividuals of  relatively  obscure  origin  who  occa- 
sionally, for  some  mysterious  reason,  wield  a  great 
influence  in  society  and  have  an  almost  pontifical 
power  of  awarding  honors  to  newcomers. 


XVI 

MR.    RUBIE    SAYS    HIS    SAY 

GRANIA,  thus  occupied  in  stemming  the  tide 
of  her  small  stream  of  visitors  and  dispersing 
it  in  different  directions  over  the  stately  reception- 
rooms  of  Ashford  House,  Dennis  was  left  free  to 
snuff  voluptuously  the  incense  that  Mr.  Heritage 
cunningly  burned  before  him.  The  words  "man 
of  genius"  were  still  dinning  exquisitely  in  Dennis's 
captivated  ears,  and  he  shaped  vainly  inarticulate 
phrases  of  grateful  appreciation.  But  Mr.  Heritage, 
ever  a  business  man,  even  with  a  poet  in  his  cups, 
slid  from  the  altitude  of  compliment  to  the  level 
of  affairs  and  talked  practical  and  technical  talk  to 
a  bewildered,  enraptured  listener. 

True  to  his  agreement  with  Grania,  Mr.  Heritage, 
while  revealing  no  hint  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
subsidized  agent,  made  Mr.  Tirowen  offers  for  the 
privilege  of  producing  "The  Buried  City"  which 
would  have  seemed  surprising  to  any  one  less  vain 
and  less  inexperienced  than  Dennis.  Mr.  Heritage, 
in  acting  thus,  was  quite  in  his  element  and  quite 
at  his  ease.  It  was  always  a  joy  to  him  whenever 
it  was  possible  to  play  the  part  of  the  munificent  art 
259 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

patron,  and  to  play  it  under  conditions  where  money 
— another's  money — was  no  object  and  where  he 
could  promise  extravagantly  with  the  certainty  that 
another  would  fulfil  his  promises,  sufficed  to  exalt 
Mr.  Heritage  to  the  apex  of  the  pyramid  of  pat- 
ronage. 

Dennis  listened  with  greedy  ears  while  Mr. 
Heritage  rolled  out  the  rotund  sentences  which, 
as  it  were,  placed  the  laurels  on  his  head  with  one 
hand  and  filled  his  pockets  with  the  other.  Mr. 
Heritage's  terms  were  as  generous  as  his  praises, 
and  poor,  perturbed,  flustered,  flattered,  wine- 
bedraggled  Dennis  found  it  hard  to  decide  which 
of  the  two  favors  he  found  the  most  to  his  liking. 
Avidly  he  swallowed  the  compliments,  eagerly  he 
agreed  to  the  golden  terms,  cheerfully  he  consented 
to  wait  upon  Mr.  Heritage  on  the  following  day  and 
receive  the  ample  sum  that  was  to  secure  the  bar- 
gain. Mr.  Tirowen,  dizzy  with  joy,  wrung  Mr. 
Heritage  by  the  hand  and  looked  rather  wildly  about 
him,  hot  to  let  others  know  and  applaud  his  good 
fortune. 

While  these  eccentric  negotiations  were  proceed- 
ing with  so  much  satisfaction  to  both  parties  in  the 
transaction — for  Mr.  Heritage  did  admire  "The 
Buried  City"  very  sincerely — Grania  was  devoting 
herself  to  the  welfare  of  her  guests.  Some  settled 
themselves  to  card-tables,  others  drifted  to  the 
music-room  and  listened  to  the  string-band  that 
existed  to  discourse  sweet  music  in  Ashford  House. 
260 


MR.    RUBIE    SAYS    HIS    SAY 

Others  of  an  austere  humor  sipped  tea  or  coffee, 
and  livelier  spirits  interested  themselves  in  absorb- 
ing great  goblets  of  an  amazing  punch  of  which 
Captain  Curtius  held  the  secret  recipe. 

In  the  course  of  her  divagation  she  came  across 
Captain  Curtius,  and  he  stayed  her  with  a  smile. 
He  had  been  drinking  far  more  than  poor  Dennis, 
but  he  carried  his  bottles  well.  His  color  was  good, 
his  insolent  eyes  were  bright,  his  speech  was  sure 
and  his  gait  steady.  He  made  a  pleasant  picture  to 
look  at,  a  picture  of  handsome  youthful  manhood 
and  soldierhood.  He  made  Grania  a  courtly  bow. 

"Your  young  countryman  is  a  merry  fellow,"  he 
said.  "I  must  congratulate  myself  upon  making 
his  acquaintance." 

He  spoke  very  easily,  as  if  he  meant  what  he  said, 
and  Grania  believed  him. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  him,"  she  replied.  "I 
should  wish  you  to  be  friends." 

Captain  Curtius  smiled  sweetly.  "Any  friend 
of  yours,"  he  protested,  "is  a  friend  of  mine."  He 
made  a  little  pause,  and  then  continued  in  the  same 
even  voice.  "He  is  a  great  friend  of  yours,  is  he 
not  ?" 

There  was  nothing  in  the  way  the  words  were 
spoken  for  Grania  to  dislike,  but  they  sounded  like 
a  challenge. 

"Mr.  Tirowen  is  a  very  great  friend  of  mine," 
she  answered,  simply.  Captain  Curtius  raised  his 
eyebrows  ever  so  little. 

18  261 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

"Upon  my  honor,"  he  said,  "the  young  gentle- 
man is  much  to  be  congratulated."  He  suddenly 
modulated  his  voice  to  a  softer  note  as  he  asked, 
"Is  he  as  great  a  friend  as  I  am  ?" 

Grania  smiled  enigmatically.  "I  have  known 
him  longer,"  she  answered.  Captain  Curtius  looked 
over  his  shoulder  to  where  in  the  distance  he  could 
see  Dennis  engaged  in  conversation  with  Mr.  Heri- 
tage. He  would  have  said  something,  but  at  that 
moment  Mr.  Rubie  came  up  and  addressed  himself 
to  Grania.  Good  Mr.  Rubie  had  been  held  in  talk 
since  the  ascent  from  dinner  by  Lady  Doubble,  who 
had  secured  him  to  cover  her  vexation  at  the  diver- 
sion of  Dennis.  He  had  been  trying  to  talk  to  her,  or, 
rather,  she  had  been  trying  to  talk  to  him,  for  while 
she  was  clever  enough  to  conceal  her  desire  for  the 
society  of  Dennis,  Mr.  Rubie  was  not  artful  enough 
to  control  his  emotions.  He  was  longing  to  talk  to 
Grania,  and  he  was  very  grateful  when  the  approach 
of  Mr.  Redacre  enabled  him  to  surrender  Lady 
Doubble  to  his  care  and  to  start  in  pursuit  of  Grania. 

Captain  Curtius  saw  the  eagerness  on  Mr.  Rubie's 
honest  face,  and  he  stepped  aside  with  an  amused 
smile.  It  was  not  the  disciple  of  Mr.  Burke  and 
Mr.  Fox  of  whom  the  gallant  captain  had  any  fear 
that  evening.  He  saw  without  alarm  that  Mr. 
Rubie  persuaded  Grania  to  withdraw  in  his  com- 
pany to  a  little  side  room  where  they  could  speak 
alone.  Captain  Curtius  turned  to  a  servant  and 
gave  him  certain  instructions.  Then  he  drifted 
262 


MR.    RUBIE    SAYS    HIS    SAY 

easily  from  one  person  to  another,  talking  easy  talk, 
but  always  keeping  his  watchful  eyes  upon  that 
alcove  where  Mr.  Rubie  conversed  with  Grania. 
He  did  not  in  the  least  care  what  Mr.  Rubie  said, 
though  he  believed  that  he  could  guess  its  tenor  well 
enough.  But  he  was  waiting  for  the  time  when  Mr. 
Rubie  should  make  an  end  of  speaking  and  give 
him  his  chance. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  As  soon  as  Mr. 
Rubie  found  himself  alone  with  Grania  he  began  to 
say  what  he  had  resolved  to  say  with  the  directness 
of  one  that  aspired  one  day  to  be  a  minister  of  the 
crown.  With  true  parliamentary  instinct,  he  began 
with  a  question,  and  so  great  is  the  force  of  habit 
that  in  spite  of  the  purpose  he  had  in  view  he  came 
within  an  ace  of  addressing  Grania  as  his  right 
honorable  friend.  Luckily  he  checked  this  impulse 
in  time. 

"Miss  O'Hara,"  he  began,  "have  I  your  per- 
mission to  speak  quite  frankly  ?"  Grania  stared  at 
him  for  a  moment,  taken  by  surprise. 

When  Mr.  Rubie  had  drawn  her  apart  she  was 
too  much  occupied  by  her  own  happy  thoughts  to 
do  other  than  accede  indifferently  to  his  wish.  Now, 
listening  to  him,  she  suddenly  guessed  what  was 
coming  and  struggled  to  look  demure.  Familiarity 
with  such  scenes  had  led  her  to  regard  them  as 
matter  for  mirth,  but  she  knew  Mr.  Rubie's  serious 
disposition,  and  she  liked  him,  and  wished  him 
well. 

263 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "you  can  speak  frankly — 
if  you  really  feel  a  need  to  be  frank  to-night." 

"I  do  feel  that  need,"  Mr.  Rubie  responded, 
"and  I  feel  it  to-night.  You  cannot  be  unaware, 
Miss  O'Hara,  that  I  entertain  a  very  profound  ad- 
miration for  you — an  admiration  which  I  feel  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  add  is  entirely  unalloyed  by 
any  consideration  of  the  fortune  it  has  pleased 
Heaven  to  place  in  your  hands.  I  am,  as  you  may 
possibly  know,  myself  a  man  of  considerable  wealth." 

Grania  did  know  so  much,  and  she  inclined  her 
head  to  signify  her  knowledge.  She  did  not  speak, 
for  Mr.  Rubie  had  not  said  yet  what  he  must  say. 
Now  he  said  it.  His  manner  was  formal,  his 
language  precise,  but  Grania  could  detect  a  little 
tremor  in  the  habitually  steady  voice,  and  felt  both 
grieved  and  grateful. 

"Miss  O'Hara,  I  have  the  honor  to  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife."  Mr.  Rubie  was  looking  very  steadfastly 
and  strangely  at  her  as  he  spoke,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  Grania  had  found  wooers  she  felt  in- 
clined to  cry.  She  shook  her  head;  for  a  moment 
she  could  not  speak;  then  with  an  effort  she  found 
words. 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Rubie,  but  I  cannot  do  what 
you  wish.  It  is  impossible,  quite  impossible." 

Mr.  Rubie  seemed  to  recognize  and  accept  the 

finality  in  her  voice.     He  was  never  the  man  to 

argue  with  fate  or  to  take  defeat  bitterly.     He  was 

paler  than  his  wont,  but  his  manner  was  dignified 

264 


MR.    RUBIE    SAYS    HIS    SAY 

and  composed  as  he  bowed  his  acknowledgment  of 
Crania's  speech. 

"May  I  ask  you,"  he  said,"  if  the  presence  in  Lon- 
don of  the  young  gentleman  whom  I  met  once  before 
in  your  company  in  Ireland  has  any  influence  upon 
your  decision  ?" 

Grania  colored  a  little  at  the  question,  but  she 
answered  it  quite  honestly.  "Yes,"  she  said  and 
said  no  more.  Mr.  Rubie  rose,  made  her  a  profound 
bow,  and  quitted  the  room  in  silence. 


XVII 

CAPTAIN  CURTIUS  PROPOSES 

MR.  RUBIE,  outwardly  calm,  inwardly  volcanic, 
had  not  quitted  the  little  room  above  a  minute, 
and  Grania  had  not  had  nearly  time  to  recover  her 
breath  after  the  only  one  of  the  many  declarations 
that  had  caused  her  the  least  pleasure  or  the  least 
pain,  when  Captain  Curtius  poked  his  handsome 
face  through  the  open  doorway.  As  Grania,  con- 
scious of  his  presence,  looked  up,  the  Captain's 
suave  voice  solicited  a  permission  to  enter,  which 
the  Captain's  insouciance  immediately  took  for 
granted.  Crossing  the  floor,  Curtius  seated  himself 
by  Crania's  side  on  the  very  seat  which  Mr.  Rubie 
had  just  vacated,  and  smiled  with  an  expression  of 
intelligent  good-fellowship  at  the  girl.  Once  again 
that  evening,  on  regarding  him,  she  was  compelled 
to  recognize  how  well  he  looked,  how  gallantly  he 
carried  himself,  how  dexterously  he  mingled  defer- 
ence with  impertinence  in  his  manner  of  valiant 
homage.  He  certainly  made  an  amazing  contrast 
to  Mr.  Rubie.  Mr.  Rubie  was  a  dozen  times,  a 
hundred  times,  the  better  man,  but  very  certainly 
Captain  Curtius  was  the  better  company.  Which 
266 


CAPTAIN  CURTIUS  PROPOSES 

of  the  pair  would  make  the  better  husband  was  a 
problem  Grania  did  not  feel  herself  called  upon  to 
consider. 

Mr.  Loveless  was  in  the  thick  of  his  theme  in  an 
instant.  "I  will  not,"  he  said,  "make  a  wager  with 
you  to  the  tune  of  a  thousand  pounds,  for  I  could  not 
afford  to  pay  if  I  lost  and  it  would  be  no  more  than 
a  flea-bite  to  you  if  I  won,  but  I  will  bet  you  a  dozen 
of  Hungary  Water  against  the  glove  that  you  are 
now  wearing  on  your  heart-hand  that  I  know  the 
pith  and  marrow  of  what  our  excellent  party-man 
has  just  been  saying  to  you." 

Grania  could  not  choose  but  smile  at  the  gaiety 
with  which  Mr.  Captain  Curtius  aired  his  mind.  "  I 
protest  I  will  not  take  you,"  she  answered,  looking 
as  she  spoke  at  her  left  hand,  and  thinking  for  a 
moment  of  its  soft  casing  being  worn  next  to  Captain 
Curtius's  heart  and  carried  into  action  maybe  if 
ever  war  should  break  out  again,  which  seemed  un- 
likely in  that  hour  of  universal  peace.  "I  know  well 
enough  what  Mr.  Rubie  and  I  were  talking  about, 
and  I  know  that  Mr.  Rubie's  views  of  the  political 
situation  are  as  sound  as  sound,  but  I  have  no  desire 
to  hear  them  over  again  from  your  lips — I  do  not 
care  for  politics." 

Captain  Curtius  nodded  sagaciously.  "Politics 
be  damned,"  he  said,  sententiously.  "But  you 
know,  and  I  know,  and  you  know  that  I  know,  that 
there  was  never  a  word  of  politics  in  old  Rubie's 
talk  to-night.  The  old  Whig  asked  you  to  marry 
267 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

him  and  you   gave    him   his   congee.     Am   I   not 
right  ?" 

"The  matter,"  said  Grania,  gravely,  "is  not  one 
that  I  propose  to  discuss  with  you  or  with  anyone." 
She  did  not  speak  angrily,  for  she  really  could  not 
feel  angry  with  Curtius  Loveless  as  he  sat  there 
looking  so  debonair  and  amiable. 

Captain  Loveless  only  laughed.  "Why  should 
we  discuss  it,"  he  asked,  gaily,  "when  we  have 
other  things,  and  much  more  important  things,  to 
discuss  ?  You  will  not  marry  Mr.  Rubie,  that  goes 
without  saying.  The  much  more  important  ques- 
tion is,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

He  neither  raised  nor  lowered  his  voice  as  he 
spoke;  he  did  not  alter  in  the  smallest  particular 
his  manner  of  gay  and  easy  self-possession,  yet  he 
managed  to  convey  through  all  his  gaiety  and  all 
his  ease  a  suggestion  of  quiet  earnestness  and  of 
restrained  passion  which  was  calculated  to  disturb 
and  which  succeeded  in  disturbing  his  hearer. 
Grania  made  as  if  to  speak,  but  Captain  Curtius 
lifted  a  hand  as  if  to  entreat  her  patience,  and 
Grania  accepted  the  suggestion,  and  was  silent. 
She  had  taken  Captain  Curtius  so  much  for  granted; 
she  had  so  readily  made  him  her  friend ;  he  had  been 
so  insidiously  careful  never  to  affect  the  lover,  ever 
to  affect  the  comrade,  that  he  had  gained  a  certain 
vantage  ground  in  her  mind,  which  made  his  pres- 
ent attack  the  more  effective,  and  might  have  made 
it  very  effective  indeed  if  there  had  never  been  a 
268 


CAPTAIN    CURTIUS    PROPOSES 

certain  poet  and  fiddler  in  Kerry.  As  it  was, 
Grania  listened  to  what  Captain  Loveless  had  to 
say,  and  she  found  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  listening, 
but  she  was  so  sure  of  her  heart  that  she  knew  that 
he  wasted  pains. 

"It  is  very  likely,"  Captain  Loveless  went  on 
calmly,  as  dispassionately,  to  outward  seeming,  as  if 
he  were  speaking  of  some  one  else,  or  for  some  one 
else,  "that  you  have  heard  a  great  deal  to  my  dis- 
credit." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  good  many  people  had 
spoken  against  Captain  Curtius  to  Grania,  chiefly 
young  gentlemen  who  resembled  him  in  his  vices, 
or  who  desired  to  resemble  him  in  his  vices.  But 
as  all  that  they  could  think  of  alleging  to  the  Cap- 
tain's discredit  was  that  he  drank  too  much,  played 
too  much,  and  loved  too  much,  and  as  none  of  these 
things  were  necessarily  other  than  what  were  known 
in  her  surroundings  as  a  good  man's  faults,  they 
had  not  succeeded  in  prejudicing  Grania  very  much 
against  Mr.  Curtius.  In  the  society  in  which  she 
now  moved  these  were  the  common  frailties.  Mr. 
Rubie,  indeed,  was  exempt  from  them;  but  then 
Mr.  Rubie  was  not  exactly  amusing.  Mr.  Curtius 
might  be  guilty  of  many  peccadilloes,  but  he  was 
certainly  a  brave  soldier,  certainly  a  comely  animal, 
certainly  a  diverting  companion.  Wherefore  Grania 
had  not  been  turned  from  her  sentiments  of  friend- 
ship for  Captain  Loveless  by  any  of  his  backbiters. 
But  Captain  Curtius  as  a  declared  suitor  was  un- 
269 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

doubtedly  a  very  different  matter  from  Captain 
Loveless  the  familiar  friend. 

Captain  Curtius,  trying  to  read  Crania's  thoughts 
on  her  countenance,  and  quite  unable  to  do  so,  con- 
tinued his  little  personal  discourse.  "  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  admit,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "that  I  have 
my  defects.  I  dare  say  that  I  drink  more  than  is 
good  for  me,  though  I  have  never  been  able  to  find 
aught  amiss  with  me  after  the  wettest  night  that 
ever  I  spent.  I  dare  say  I  play  a  bit  deeper  than  I 
should,  but  I  assure  you  that  I  generally  balance 
up  to  the  good  at  the  end  of  the  year."  He  stopped 
speaking  for  a  second,  and  looked  at  Grania  with  a 
look  half  knowing  and  half  appealing  of  a  well- 
calculated  frankness.  "I  have  no  doubt  that  you 
have  heard  that  I  am  a  bit  of  a  lady's  man.  Well, 
it's  perfectly  true.  I  am.  I've  always  liked  women 
ever  since  I  can  remember  anything  worth  remem- 
bering, and  ever  since  I  can  remember  women  have 
liked  me.  Upon  my  honor,  I  believe  that  is  all 
that  can  be  said  against  me.  As  to  what  can  be 
said  for  me,  why,  I  think  I  must  throw  myself  upon 
your  mercy,  for  if  I  have  any  good  qualities  I  should 
be  the  last  man  to  brag  about  them.  But  there  is 
one  merit  to  which  I  must  confess,  one  virtue  of 
which  I  am  amazingly  proud,  the  redeeming  merit, 
the  exhonorating  virtue  of  loving  you." 

Grania  listening  to  him  and  feeling  as  if  she 
were  listening  to  a  voice  in  a  dream,  was  compelled 
to  admit  that  Captain  Curtius  had  a  certain  felicity 
270 


CAPTAIN    CURTIUS    PROPOSES 

in  love-making.  Almost  she  could  have  wished 
that  another  and  dearer  had  something  of  this 
soldier's  complaisant  grace.  Grania  knew  that 
she  ought  to  listen  no  longer,  that  she  should  not 
have  listened  so  long,  but  she  was  intoxicated  by 
the  events  of  that  astonishing  day,  and  she  absolved 
herself  from  any  folly  with  that  plea.  Captain 
Curtius  continued  his  harangue. 

"Of  course  there  is  this  enormous  fortune  of 
yours.  I  should  have  spoken  before,  long  ago,  if 
only  you  had  not  been  so  damnably  rich.  Please 
do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  I  do  not  like  money, 
for  I  do;  I  like  it  enormously.  But  I  don't  want  to 
marry  any  woman  for  her  money,  and,  most  of  all,  I 
don't  want  to  marry  you  for  your  money.  I  know 
that  I  must  seem  a  pauper  compared  with  you,  but 
I've  got  enough  for  all  my  wants,  thanks  to  a  blessed 
old  aunt  of  mine,  and  need  only  seek  to  marry  ac- 
cording to  the  dictates  of  my  heart.  There,  I  have 
talked  too  much  about  myself,  yet  I  had  to  say  so 
much  to  set  myself  right  in  your  eyes.  I  love  you. 
I  do  not  think  that  I  am  altogether  unworthy  to 
tell  you  so  much.  I  am  proud  that  I  love  you,  that 
long  usage  of  the  world  has  not  so  dulled  my  mind 
or  blunted  my  emotions  as  to  make  me  insensible  of 
your  worth  or  of  your  beauty.  I  shall  always  be 
proud  to  have  loved  you.  It  is  something  for  a 
poor  sinful  fellow  to  have  been  granted  so  much 
grace." 

Captain  Curtius  was  certainly  a  cunning  pleader, 
271 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

for  Grania  found  herself  listening  with  pleasure  to 
his  appeal.  Her  senses  seemed  to  be  swayed  by 
some  subtle  influences  that  lulled  her  as  the  hand- 
some young  soldier  paid  his  addresses  with  such  en- 
gaging frankness.  She  struggled  against  the  strange 
sensations  that  invaded  her;  she  compelled  herself 
to  speak. 

"Captain  Loveless,"  she  said,  "I  ought  not  to 
have  listened  to  you  for  so  long,  and  would  not 
indeed  if  I  could  have  interrupted  you  with  any 
show  of  courtesy.  I  cannot  but  be  grateful  for  the 
compliment  you  have  paid  me" — here  Captain 
Curtius  made  her  a  grave  little  bow  that  was  effec- 
tive in  its  quiet  dignity — "but  I  am  not  a  free 
woman." 

If  Captain  Curtius  was  wounded  or  surprised 
by  Crania's  words  he  showed  neither  hurt  nor 
wonder.  Only  he  asked  a  question,  following 
unawares  the  example  set  him  so  short  a  time  before 
by  Mr.  Rubie. 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Tirowen  ?"  he  asked,  and  asked  no 
more. 

Grania  nodded. 

Mr.  Loveless  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  am  sorry,"  he 
said,  with  a  great  air  of  frankness.  "It  would  not 
become  me  to  utter  a  word  of  disparagement  of  any 
one  whom  it  had  pleased  you  to  favor,  but  upon 
my  honor  and  without  vainglory,  as  between  Mr. 
Tirowen  and  myself,  I  believe  myself  to  be  the 
better  man.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say,"  he  went  on, 
272 


CAPTAIN    CURTIUS    PROPOSES 

for  he  saw  that  Grania  was  about  to- speak.  "Per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  have  said  as  much.  Very  cer- 
tainly I  shall  not  say  as  much  again.  May  I  have 
the  honor  of  escorting  you  to  the  drawing-room  ?" 
He  offered  her  his  arm  with  excellent  grace. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  voice  or  bearing  of  the 
disappointed  man,  of  the  baffled  suitor.  He  was 
quite  at  his  ease,  quite  self-possessed,  quite  suf- 
ficiently blithe.  He  played  his  part  very  well. 
Grania,  taking  his  arm  in  silence,  reflected  in  a 
whirl  of  confused  thoughts  that  she  had  received 
within  the  last  few  minutes  the  only  offers  of  mar- 
riage that  had  moved  her  to  any  serious  or  tender 
emotion.  Captain  Curtius  on  his  side  did  not 
believe  that  his  game  was  by  any  means  lost.  He 
was  still  less  ready  to  believe  it  when  on  re-entering 
the  Gold  Room  he  saw  that  the  directions  he  had 
given  to  a  servant  a  little  while  before  had  been 
faithfully  carried  out. 


XVIII 

WISDOM   IN  THE   CAN 

BY  Captain  Curtius's  directions  a  servant  con- 
veyed a  tray  bearing  a  bowl  of  punch  and 
some  glasses  toward  Dennis  and  set  it  down  on  a 
table  hard  by  the  spot  where  Dennis  and  Mr. 
Heritage  were  standing.  "With  Captain  Curtius's 
complements,"  the  man  said,  to  call  Dennis's  atten- 
tion to  the  liquor,  and  stood  waiting  by  the  table. 

Dennis's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  sight  of  the  punch. 
"We  must  wet  our  bargain,"  he  said,  thickly,  and 
at  once  ladled  out  two  glasses  of  the  compound  with 
a  hand  so  unsteady  that  he  slopped  not  a  little  of 
the  liquid  on  to  the  tray.  He  took  up  one  of  the 
full  glasses  and  motioned  to  Mr.  Heritage  to  take 
the  other. 

Mr.  Heritage  did  so,  and,  lifting  the  vessel  to  his 
lips,  looked  over  its  edge  at  Dennis.  "Here's  wish- 
ing you  success,"  he  said,  and  sipped  a  little  of  the 
drink. 

Dennis  laughed  foolishly.     "  Success  to  the  play," 

he  said,  and  drained  his  glass.     The  subtle  fluid  set 

his  jaded  brain  on  fire.     He  hastily  filled  another 

glass.     "This    is    glorious    stuff,"    he    protested. 

274 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

"Here's  your  good  health,  Mr.  Heritage."  He 
tossed  off  the  second  glass  and  filled  himself  again 
a  third,  while  Mr.  Heritage  sipped  judiciously  and 
eyed  Dennis  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"If  I  were  you/'  he  said,  quietly,  when  Dennis 
had  disposed  of  his  third  tumbler,  "I  should  deal 
quietly  with  that  beverage." 

"Deal  quietly,  is  it?"  Dennis  protested.  "Why, 
man,  it's  as  mild  as  milk;  it's  the  elixir  of  life." 

Mr.  Heritage  smiled  and  took  another  small  sip. 
He  was  a  temperate  drinker,  and  if  he  sometimes 
exceeded  discretion  in  other  pleasures,  he  never  ex- 
ceeded in  wine.  But  he  was  used  to  witnessing 
examples  of  excess  in  wine,  and  Dennis's  case  af- 
forded him  a  new  illustration  of  its  folly.  His 
libations  of  punch  on  the  top  of  his  indulgence  in 
unfamiliar  wine  had  disordered  his  wit  and  de- 
stroyed his  self-restraint.  It  was  probable  that 
somewhere  in  the  back  of  his  disordered  brain  he 
felt  an  unwarrantable  conviction  that  he  was  be- 
having with  great  dignity  and  wisdom.  He  dis- 
coursed volubly,  if  incoherently,  on  art;  he  favored 
Mr.  Heritage  with  an  elaborate  exposition  of  his 
views  as  to  the  proper  conduct  of  a  theater,  the 
main  thesis  of  which  appeared  to  his  diverted 
listener  to  be  that  the  theater,  any  theater,  existed 
chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  producing  the  plays, 
already  written  or  to  be  written,  of  Mr.  Dennis 
Tirowen. 

When  he  had  expanded  this  theory  for  a  con- 
275 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

siderable  time  Dennis's  unsteady  hand  groped  over 
the  little  table  hard  by  him  till  it  touched  the 
tumbler  for  which  he  sought.  It  was  full  again,  as 
he  had  found  it  full  every  time  when,  after  he  had 
emptied  it,  he  reached  for  it  again.  The  servant 
that  stood  by,  a  sedulous  minister  steadfastly  obey- 
ing the  hospitable  instructions  of  Captain  Loveless, 
saw  to  that.  Dennis  had  continued  to  drink  un- 
checked by  Mr.  Heritage.  It  was  none  of  his 
business  to  prevent  his  new  author  from  becoming 
fuddled  if  such  were  his  good  pleasure.  So  Dennis 
drank  and  babbled  and  babbled  and  drank,  talking 
ever  thickly  and  more  thickly  of  his  genius  and  of 
his  play  and  of  Mr.  Heritage's  good  fortune  in  rind- 
ing him.  And  all  the  time  the  conflagatory  punch 
burned  up  the  residue  of  Dennis's  wits,  till  he  began 
to  drivel.  Now  he  lifted  his  glass  to  his  lips  and 
took  a  good  swig  of  the  liquor,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
saw  over  the  tilted  rim  Grania  moving  down  the 
long  room  toward  him.  To  be  faithfully  precise,  he 
seemed  to  see  two  Granias,  but  the  whimsical  cir- 
cumstance did  not  disturb  him.  He  lowered  the 
vessel,  splashing  the  lees  of  the  contents  over  the 
floor,  while  Mr.  Heritage  skipped  nimbly  aside  to 
escape  contamination  and  shattering  the  glass  into 
fragments  by  the  force  with  which  he  struck  it 
against  the  table. 

Up  to  that  moment  nobody  except  Mr.  Heritage 
had  paid  any  heed  to  Dennis  or  noted  his  condition. 
The  company  had  been  too  busy  with  their  own 
276 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

devices,  some  playing  cards,  some  talking  scandal, 
some  bandying  briskly  the  ball  of  elaborate  flirta- 
tion. But  with  the  crash  and  clatter  of  the  ruined 
glass  all  attentions  were  diverted  from  other  pur- 
suits and  all  eyes  were  turned  to  the  table  where 
Dennis  stood  swaying  and  laughing,  with  Mr. 
Heritage  near  by  surveying  him  with  contemptuous 
amusement. 

Crania's  pace  quickened  in  her  course  toward 
Dennis.  Captain  Curtius  followed  her,  close  at  her 
heels.  Dennis  lurched  away  from  the  supporting 
table  and  staggered  forward  a  few  paces,  bringing 
himself  to  a  halt  uneasily  by  clutching  at  the 
shoulder  of  an  adjacent  chair. 

"Grania,"  he  shouted,  "Grania,  my  girl,  all  is  well. 
Old  Heritage  takes  my  play.  Splendid  fellow,  old 
Heritage,  knows  a  man  of  genius  when  he  sees  one." 

He  looked  weakly  round  in  the  endeavor  to  dis- 
cover the  manager  of  the  Rotundo  and  address  his 
encomium  direct  to  him.  Failing  hopelessly  in  this 
attempt,  he  swung  back  again  to  face  the  multitude 
of  staring  faces.  He  felt  vaguely  that  the  occasion 
called  for  eloquence  and  should  have  it. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  stammered,  "I  have 
the  honor  to  inform  you  that  Mr.  Heritage,  of  the 
Rotundo  Theater — splendid  man,  splendid  theater 
— has  been  lucky  enough  to  secure  my  splendid  play 
for  his  next  production.  I  invite  all  of  you  to  be 
present  at  the  first  performance — all  of  you,  my 
guests — splendid  event." 
19  277 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

As  he  spoke  he  reeled  against  the  chair,  which, 
luckily,  retained  its  equilibrium,  and,  seating  him- 
self somehow,  kept  still,  huddled  up  and  staring 
stupidly. 

All  this  had  happened  very  rapidly.  The  com- 
pany preserved  silence,  highly  diverted  and  wonder- 
ing what  would  happen  next.  Grania  had  stood 
still  at  the  first  sound  of  Dennis's  voice,  had  re- 
mained so  standing  while  Dennis  continued  to 
speak.  He  seemed  to  her  to  be  speaking  for  a  very 
long  time,  during  which  she  tried  hard  to  think  that 
nothing  was  happening  amiss.  Round  about  her 
she  beheld  mocking  faces  painted  in  smiles.  Not 
all  were  smiling.  She  saw  Lord  Cloyne's  face 
fiercely  disdainful,  she  saw  Lady  Cloyne's  face 
bitten  with  anger.  Lord  Cloyne,  indeed,  was 
much  less  indignant  than  his  wife,  and  looked  less 
indignant.  He  was,  in  reality,  very  well  content 
with  the  way  things  were  going.  The  objectionable 
fellow  from  Ireland,  whose  sudden  appearance  he 
had  resented  with  a  resentment  which  was  all  the 
fiercer  because  it  had  to  be  concealed,  was  playing 
Lord  Cloyne's  game  excellently.  No  doubt  Lady 
Cloyne  realized  this  as  well  as  her  husband,  but  she 
was  furious  at  such  a  scandalous  scene  taking  place 
in  a  house  where  she  had  been  at  least  a  vice-queen, 
and  she  allowed  a  very  open  expression  of  disgust 
to  disturb  the  habitual  tranquillity  of  her  coun- 
tenance. 

As  Dennis  finished  his  drunken  speech  and 
278 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

stumbled  into  the  chair  Crania  was  suddenly  aware 
that  Captain  Curtius  was  close  by  her  side  and  was 
regarding  her  closely.  She  turned  her  head  and 
looked  into  his  face.  Captain  Curtius  desired  to 
show  an  impassive  countenance,  but  for  the  life  of 
him  he  could  not  restrain  an  expression  of  malicious 
victory.  In  a  flash  Grania  seemed  to  understand, 
and  Captain  Curtius  saw  the  sudden  rage  in  her 
dark  eyes.  Yet  in  spite  of  this  warning  he  was 
irresistibly  tempted  to  improve  the  occasion. 

"Indeed,  indeed,"  he  said,  softly,  "I  believe  my- 
self to  be  the  better  man." 

Certainly  there  could  be  no  question  for  any  sane 
observer  as  to  which  of  the  two  looked  the  better 
man.  The  one  stood  so  erect  and  soldierly,  wearing 
his  scarlet  coat  with  so  distinguished  an  air.  His 
handsome  face,  unstained  by  his  excesses,  carried 
the  fair  color  of  health  and  strength;  his  smiling 
eyes  were  clear  and  bright;  his  body  was  nobly 
made  and  nobly  poised;  his  movements  were 
supple;  he  seemed,  indeed,  a  heroic  figure.  The 
other  squatted  in  his  chair,  hunched  up  helplessly, 
his  borrowed  finery  bedraggled  and  awry,  his  arms 
listlessly  pendent,  his  legs  sprawling  ungraciously. 
There  was  the  foolish  grin  of  intoxication  upon  his 
face  where  the  triumphant  wine  had  cruelly  recalled 
the  lines  that  want  and  degradation  had  traced. 
His  cheeks  were  unwholesomely  mottled,  his  eyes 
glittered  disagreeably,  his  hair  was  ludicrously 
disheveled,  for  in  the  course  of  his  conversation 
279 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

with  Mr.  Heritage  he  had  frequently,  as  meaning- 
lessly,  thrust  his  ringers  through  his  locks  in  what 
he  imagined  to  be  a  highly  poetic  action.  Even  as 
he  sat  he  gesticulated  foolishly,  and  it  has  to  be 
admitted  that  every  now  and  then  he  hiccoughed. 
It  would  have  been  hard  even  for  a  caricaturist  to 
imagine  a  more  astonishing  centerpiece  for  a 
fashionable  gathering.  Only  the  iron  influence  of 
an  etiquette  that  kept  them  in  mind  of  the  presence 
of  their  hostess  restrained  the  majority  of  tjie  women 
from  laughing  audibly,  restrained  the  majority  of 
the  men  from  jeering  openly.  Grania,  seeming  to 
observe  everything  about  her  with  a  singular  lucid- 
ity, caught  sight  of  Mr.  Pointdexter,  and  found  him 
quietly  observant,  surveying  the  intoxicated  poet 
with  the  cold  impartiality  of  a  judge  scrutinizing  a 
prisoner;  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Rubie,  hot  and  em- 
barrassed, obviously  trying  to  devise  some  prac- 
tical scheme  for  saving  the  situation,  but  unable  to 
think  of  anything  satisfactory. 

Grania  felt,  with  a  sudden  pang,  that  she  stood 
on  the  edge  of  inevitable  decision.  Beside  her  the 
well-made,  well-kept,  alert  aristocrat,  with  the  fine 
face  and  the  fine  body,  represented  the  world  into 
which  she  had  newly  come,  the  world  which  she 
had  learned  if  not  to  love,  at  least  to  appreciate, 
the  world  of  suave  customs  and  bland  formalities, 
a  world  of  pleasure  palisaded,  so  far  as  was  hu- 
manly possible,  against  pain.  Facing  her,  the 
pathetic,  collapsed  creature  whose  nodding  head 
280 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

lolled  upon  his  breast  with  flushed  face  and  falling 
lids  and  gaping  lips,  whose  limbs,  through  his  own 
ignoble  folly,  denied  him  service,  the  wretched  ad- 
venturer who  had  set  out  to  win  a  crown  and  had 
failed  first  and  last,  represented  the  world  from 
which  she  had  come,  although  for  the  instant  he 
presented  it  very  unworthily.  As  she  looked  at  him 
with  tender,  compassionate  eyes  that  knew  neither 
scorn  nor  repulsion  she  saw  him  again  as  he  had 
been  in  kindly  Ireland,  strong  and  clean  and  simple, 
ambitious,  studious,  a  master  of  songs,  a  master 
of  music.  Dennis  of  the  Sweet  Mouth.  This  was 
Dennis  of  the  Sweet  Mouth,  this  bemused,  bedrag- 
gled simpleton  that  was  now  the  laughing-stock  of 
a  London  drawing-room,  the  laughing-stock  of  her 
guests  in  her  house. 

Crania's  heart  was  as  a  fountain  of  tears  that 
flowed  in  sweet  pity  for  her  poor  lover  that  had 
fallen  upon  evil  days  and  that  had  shamed  himself 
so  gravely.  But  the  shame,  she  felt  sure,  had  not 
been  all  of  his  own  making.  The  covert  malice  in 
Captain  Curtius's  smile  assured  her  that  he  had 
played  his  skilful  part  in  bringing  about  poor 
Dennis's  degradation.  Dennis  had  been  wronged, 
and  she  must  right  him;  Dennis  had  been  betrayed, 
and  she  must  aid  him.  She  felt  no  resentment 
against  him,  no  repugnance  at  his  self-caused  plight; 
any  such  feelings  were  swept  away  on  the  strong 
tide  of  her  profound  pity  for  his  loneliness,  his  de- 
fenselessness,  his  defeat.  The  words  of  Captain 
281 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Curtius  hurt  her  like  a  wound.  He  might  indeed 
be  the  better  man,  but  Dennis  was  her  man.  She 
sorrowed  for  him  as  a  mother  would  sorrow  for  a 
son  that  had  come  to  like  case;  all  her  loyal  soul  was 
eager  to  defend  the  friend  who  needed  defense. 
Come  what  might  come,  he  was  her  beloved,  and  she 
would  never  deny  him. 

She  looked  steadily  into  Captain  Curtius's  smil- 
ing face.  "Are  you  sure  ?"  she  asked,  in  answer  to 
his  speech.  Then  she  walked  quickly  to  where 
Dennis  sat,  unconsciously  pilloried,  and  stood  by 
him  resting  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  At  her 
touch  Dennis  looked  up  at  her  with  watery  eyes,  and 
chuckled  weakly.  On  all  the  staring  faces  amuse- 
ment or  annoyance  had  now  shifted  to  intense  sur- 
prise and  expectation.  Grania  looked  very  brave 
and  beautiful  standing  there  with  her  hand  on  the 
sick  man's  shoulder.  Captain  Curtius  was  tempted 
to  applaud,  as  at  some  fine  scene  in  a  play;  Mr. 
Rubie  felt  his  heart  swell  within  him;  Mr.  Fenny, 
forgetting  his  apprehensions  for  his  wardrobe, 
could  have  changed  places  with  Dennis  to  be  so 
championed;  Mr.  Pointdexter  for  an  instant  per- 
mitted a  smile  of  wry  approval  to  temper  the 
wooden  rigidity  of  his  countenance;  Mr.  Heritage 
wished  that  he  knew  an  actress  who  could  carry 
herself  so  queenly. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  Grania  began,  deliber- 
ately following  the  example  that  Dennis  had  set 
her,  "you  have  heard  one  piece  of  news  from  Mr. 
282 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

Tirowen  to-night;  you  have  heard  that  his  play 
has  been  accepted  by  Mr.  Heritage  for  production 
at  the  Rotundo  Theater,  and  he  has  my  heartfelt 
congratulations  on  the  good  tidings." 

A  burst  of  applause,  led  by  Mr.  Heritage,  followed 
Crania's  words,  for  those  that  made  her  audience 
liked  her  pluck  in  standing  up  for  her  guest  and 
friend,  and  admired  the  way  in  which  she  did  it. 
Dennis  clawed  vaguely  at  her  hand  and  murmured 
some  maudlin  words  of  gratitude.  But  Grania  had 
not  yet  said  her  say. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  began  again,  "that 
is  not  the  only  piece  of  news  that  Mr.  Tirowen  has 
to  tell  you  to-night."  Here  a  little  murmur  of  cu- 
riosity ran  round  the  room,  for  the  manner  of 
Grania,  as  well  as  her  words,  suggested  something 
uncommon.  Dennis  himself,  listening,  lifted  his 
head  and  seemed  to  be  struggling  to  regain  control 
of  his  disordered  senses.  Grania  pressed  her  hand 
a  little  more  lovingly  upon  his  shoulder,  and  went 
on. 

"Mr.  Tirowen  will  tell  you,  or  I  will  tell  you  for 
him,  that  he  and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

The  words  fell  with  staggering  effect  upon 
Crania's  hearers.  Not  a  sound  greeted  them;  they 
were  received  with  a  well-nigh  religious  hush  so 
greatly  did  they  astonish  the  company.  Captain 
Curtius  swore  beneath  his  breath;  Mr.  Rubie  felt 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  swallow  a  cannon-ball;  Mr. 
Heritage  shaped  his  mouth  for  an  inaudible  whistle; 
283 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Fenny  restrained  an  unexpected  desire  to  laugh 
hysterically;  Mr.  Pointdexter  looked  inscrutable; 
Mr.  Redacre  hurriedly  called  his  system  of  mnemon- 
ics into  play  in  order  to  record  upon  the  tablets 
of  his  memory  the  exact  effect  of  the  greatest  sur- 
prise it  had  ever  been  his  privilege  to  witness  in  a 
London  drawing-room.  But  events  moved  too 
fast  for  Mr.  Redacre.  Great  as  was  the  surprise 
which  Crania's  announcement  had  made,  it  was 
destined  to  be  eclipsed,  and  that  instantly,  by  a 
surprise  that  was  still  greater. 

The  hush  of  surprise  was  still  heavy  on  the  com- 
pany when  they  suddenly  realized  with  a  new 
amazement  that  Dennis  had  risen  to  his  feet  and 
was  endeavoring  to  address  them.  At  first,  of 
course,  they  took  it  for  granted  that  the  man  was 
simply  going  to  indorse  and  emphasize  what 
Grania  had  said,  but  his  earliest  words  taught  them 
that  they  were  mistaken.  Dennis  seemed  to  'be 
inflamed  with  indignation,  and  his  unexpected 
anger  appeared  to  have  had  an  unexpected  pow- 
er of  sobering  him,  for,  though  his  speech  was 
somewhat  thick,  his  words  came  separate  and  dis- 
tinct. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  protested,  vehemently; 
"nothing  of  the  kind.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I 
assure  you  that  Miss  O'Hara  is  entirely  mistaken. 
We  are  not  engaged  to  be  married.  "He  turned  to 
Grania,  who  had  grown  frightfully  pale,  and  ad- 
dressed her.  "You  know  very  well,  Grania,  that 
284 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

there  can  be  no  talk  of  marriage  between  us  for  the 
present.     I  have  told  you  so  plainly  enough." 

By  this  time  all  the  company  had  risen  to  their 
feet  and  were  moving  with  common  consent  toward 
where  Grania  and  Dennis  stood.  It  seemed  evident 
to  all  present  that  Dennis's  drunkenness  had  taken 
a  new  turn,  as  drunkenness  sometimes  will,  but  it 
also  seemed  necessary  to  all  that  its  display  should 
be  reduced  to  silence  instantly. 

Many  who  did  not  know  Grania  well  thought 
that  she  might  faint,  and  Mr.  Rubie  and  Captain 
Curtius  were  rivals  in  their  efforts  to  approach  her, 
only  to  find  that  Mr.  Pointdexter  had  forestalled 
them  both  and  was  already  standing  by  Crania's 
side,  ready  to  afford  her  any  assistance  she  might 
need.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  did  not  seem  to  need 
any.  She  stood  very  white  and  quiet,  resting  one 
hand  lightly  on  Mr.  Pointdexter's  arm,  and  com- 
posedly assuring  Lady  Cloyne  that  of  course  Mr. 
Tirowen  knew  his  own  mind  and  that  she  was  sorry 
she  had  caused  him  any  annoyance.  She  did  not 
let  any  one  see  how  profoundly  she  was  disappointed 
at  the  failure  of  her  sweet  plot  to  snare  Dennis  into 
acceptance  of  an  openly  proclaimed  engagement, 
and  though  she  was  horribly  hurt  by  the  way  Dennis 
had  treated  her,  she  now  blamed  herself  for  her 
gracious  effort  to  coerce  him. 

Captain  Curtius  made  his  way  to  where  Dennis 
stood,  all  red  with  the  rage  of  his  intoxication's  new 
mood. 

285 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

"Sir,"  said  Captain  Curtius,  softly^  "permit  me 
to  express  the  opinion  that  you  are  a  peculiarly  un- 
attractive blackguard." 

Those  that  heard  seemed  to  agree  and  approve. 
Dennis,  whose  changed  drunkenness  had  restored  to 
him  a  certain  control  over  his  body  and  limbs,  made 
answer  by  attempting  to  strike  Captain  Curtius  on 
the  face.  The  aim  was  wide,  and  Dennis's  clenched 
fist  did  no  more  than  brush  Captain  Curtius's  cheek. 
The  soldier  put  up  his  arm  to  parry  the  stroke,  and 
the  force  of  his  defense  upset  Dennis's  balance. 
He  staggered  and  sat  heavily  in  the  chair  and  glared 
at  those  about  him. 

"Two  of  my  friends/'  said  Captain  Loveless,  still 
in  a  low  voice,  and  still  with  a  quiet  politeness, 
"will  call  upon  you  in  the  morning." 

Dennis  did  not  seem  to  realize  the  meaning  of 
the  Captain's  words.  The  stupor  of  his  first  stage 
seemed  to  be  descending  upon  him  again.  He 
murmured  something  sulkily,  which  those  nearest 
to  him  understood  to  mean  "Damn  your  friends." 

Captain  Curtius  turned  to  Mr.  Fenny.  "Will  you 
find  out  where  the  fellow  lives,"  he  said,  still  speak- 
ing pleasantly,  "and  look  him  up  in  the  morning?" 

Mr.  Fenny  nodded. .  He  was  thinking,  in  a  phrase 
habitual  to  him,  that  it  was  rather  a  blue  outlook 
for  Mr.  Tirowen.  The  little  episode  had  happened 
very  rapidly.  Now  those  that  had  been  near  to 
Dennis  began  to  edge  away  from  him  and  leave 
him  to  himself.  He  looked  about  him  stupidly 
286 


WISDOM    IN    THE    CAN 

and  rose  with  difficulty  to  his  feet.  He  was  trying 
to  say  something,  but  the  words  did  not  seem  to 
come  very  readily  to  his  stammering  lips.  He  made 
a  piteous,  ridiculous  figure. 

Now  was  the  moment  chosen  by  Lady  Doubble  to 
assert  herself.  She  had  been  chafing  for  long 
enough  at  being  delayed  in  her  conquest  of  the 
handsome  young  Irelander;  she  had  watched  him 
with  devouring  eyes  during  the  long  course  of  his 
conversation  with  Mr.  Heritage,  though  all  the 
while  she  contrived  to  keep  up  a  creditable  show  of 
conversation,  first  with  Mr.  Rubie  and  afterward 
with  Mr.  Redacre.  When  Dennis  made  his  ridicu- 
lous speech  of  invitation  she  was  less  impressed  by 
his  drunkenness  than  by  the  fact  that  he  remained 
desirable.  An  animal  rage  possessed  her  when 
Grania  announced  her  engagement  to  Dennis,  a 
rage  that  was  succeeded  by  a  no  less  animal  joy 
when  Dennis  made  his  amazing  repudiation  of  the 
girl.  Now  she  saw  the  chance  to  secure  his  friend- 
ship. She  rose  from  the  sofa  where  she  sat  and 
glided  across  the  room  with  a  motion  which  she  con- 
fidently believed  to  be  swan-like  till  she  came  to  a 
halt  beside  the  unhappy  youth,  who  sat  isolated  and 
shunned.  Dennis  was  still  gibbering  absurdities, 
but  he  became  silent  when  Lady  Doubble  laid  a 
gently  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Dear  Mr.  Tirowen,"  she  said,  affectionately, 
"the  room  is  very  warm  and  I  am  feeling  the  effect 
of  it.  Will  you  be  so  gracious  as  to  escort  me  to  my 
287 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

carriage.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  dropping  you  anywhere  I  shall  be  more  than 
delighted." 

Some  remnant  of  lucidity  allowed  Dennis  to  un- 
derstand dimly  that  he  was  being  offered  a  way  of 
escape  from  a  bewildering  situation  which  it  was 
beyond  his  powers  to  understand  clearly.  With  an 
effort  he  rose  to  his  feet,  stiffened  himself  against 
the  chair,  and  endeavored  to  regain  control  of  a 
distracted  brain,  to  compel  the  whirling  room 
and  blurred  figures  to  stability  and  distinctness. 
He  was  muzzily  convinced  that  he  had  been  carry- 
ing himself  with  great  dignity,  also  that  he  was 
shamefully  misunderstood;  he  was  distinctly  in- 
clined to  weep.  Abandoning  the  chair,  he  clutched 
at  Lady  Doubble's  plump  arm  to  save  him  from 
falling  and  sprawling  on  the  floor.  Very  fortunately 
the  good  lady  was  strong  enough  to  support  him. 
Piloted  by  his  companion,  Dennis  made  his  uncer- 
tain way  across  the  room,  mumbling  what  he  be- 
lieved to  be  appropriate  expressions  of  farewell  as 
he  went,  while  the  silent  company  stared  at  this 
new  episode  in  an  eventful  evening  as  they  had 
never  stared  before.  As  the  pair  reached  the  door 
Grania,  who  had  been  standing  very  still,  made  a 
slight  movement  as  if  to  advance  and  stay  their 
departure,  but  she  immediately  repressed  the  in- 
clination, and  in  another  moment  Lady  Doubble 
had  disappeared  from  the  room  with  her  drunken 
poet,  as  it  were,  in  her  pocket. 


BOOK  III 
THE    PLAY'S  THE   THING 


I 

\ 
IN   THE    ROTUNDO 

'""THE  Annual  Recorder  for  the  year  1815,  occu- 
1  pied  as  it  was  with  chronicling  certain  of  the 
greatest  events  of  modern  history,  nevertheless 
found  place — those  in  its  pages  devoted  to  social 
events — for  a  slight  account  of  one  of  the  curious 
convulsions  that  occasionally  disturb  the  equanim- 
ity of  theatrical  history.  The  writer  expresses  his 
sympathy  for  Mr.  Heritage,  manager  of  the  Rotundo 
Theater,  who  found  himself  the  victim  of  a  series 
of  demonstrations  which  turned  for  a  time  his 
theater  into  a  bear-garden.  But  the  writer  does 
little  beyond  mentioning  the  fact  that  a  cabal  existed 
which  had  all  the  appearance  of  being  called  into 
being  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  the  production 
of  a  certain  play,  and  that  this  cabal  was  opposed 
by  a  counter-party  in  favor  of  the  play,  and  that  the 
proceedings  of  the  two  forces  attracted  great  num- 
bers to  the  theater,  not  indeed  so  much  to  see  the 
piece  as  the  battle  that  raged  about  it.  From  other 
sources,  however,  and  chiefly  from  the  memoirs  of 
Mr.  Redacre,  it  is  possible  to  elicit  a  fuller  account 
of  the  extraordinary  occurrence  and  of  its  secret 
causes. 

291 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Heritage  was  very  proud  of  the  Rotundo 
Theater,  and  he  had  plenty  of  justification  for  his 
pride.  The  theater  was  popular  with  all  classes; 
it  earned  such  special  favor  from  authority,  thanks 
to  the  patronage  of  His  Royal  Highness,  the  Prince 
Regent,  that  Mr.  Heritage  had  a  free  hand  in  its 
management.  The  Rotundo  Theater  made  money 
for  Mr.  Heritage,  and  Mr.  Heritage  liked  money, 
but  he  liked  fame  as  well  and  wished  to  be  regarded 
as  supreme  in  his  sphere.  He  was  pleased  to  be- 
lieve that  his  theater  was  the  handsomest  in  London; 
he  decked  it;  he  adorned  it;  nothing  was  too  good 
for  it  that  could  increase  its  attractiveness.  It  was 
dearer  to  him  than  a  child,  and  Mr.  Heritage  had 
no  children.  It  was  dearer  to  him  than  a  mistress, 
and  report  accorded  him  many  mistresses. 

The  room  which  was  reserved  for  the  manager  of 
the  Rotundo  Theater,  the  room  in  which  he  trans- 
acted his  private  business,  interviewed  favored 
authors  or  pretty  actresses,  and  occasionally  enter- 
tained his  friends,  was  such  a  one  as  Mr.  Heritage 
believed  to  be  worthy  of  his  position  and  of  himself. 
As  Mr.  Heritage  had  an  exceedingly  high  opinion 
of  both,  it  follows  that  the  room  was  as  gorgeous  as 
Mr.  Heritage  could  make  it.  It  was  spacious  and 
pierced  with  a  pair  of  windows  that  overlooked  a 
quiet  back  street  where  the  stage-door  of  the 
theater  was.  No  sound  reached  that  room  of  the 
roar  and  clatter  of  the  great  main  street  on  which 
the  pillared  portico  of  the  Rotundo  stood. 
292 


IN    THE    ROTUNDO 

It  was  richly  furnished  after  a  fashion  that  how- 
ever much  it  might  suggest  the  opulence  of  its 
owner  and  his  desire  to  make  that  opulence  evident 
to  the  meanest  observer  could  not  possibly  be  said 
to  err  on  the  side  of  lightness.  The  floor  was  cov- 
ered with  the  thickest  of  thick  carpets,  a  rich  velvet 
pile  of  a  vivid  ruby  color  which  would  make  an 
imaginative  person  fancy  that  he  was  walking  on 
a  crimson  moss.  This  carpet  deadened  all  foot- 
falls and  insured  to  Mr.  Heritage  that  soothing 
sense  of  quiet  so  agreeable  to  the  nerves  of  a  man 
who  feels  that  he  has  little  less  than  imperial  cares 
upon  his  shoulders.  When  he,  paced,  as  he  often 
did  pace  in  moments  of  grave  reflection,  up  and 
down  the  extent  of  his  room  he  found  that  the  rich 
resilience  of  that  texture  had  a  soothing  effect 
both  mental  and  physical  which  served  to  transport 
him,  like  the  flying  carpet  in  the  fairy  tale,  into 
undreamed-of  realms  of  thought. 

Above,  a  flamboyant  painted  ceiling  represented 
the  muses  and  the  graces,  all  amiably  disarrayed, 
doing  homage  to  a  stout,  bald  gentleman,  awk- 
wardly foreshortened,  whose  air  of  preoccupation 
and  whose  attitude — one  hand  pressing  a  reflective 
finger  to  a  spacious  brow  and  one  hand  poising  a 
quill  over  the  pages  of  an  open  book — left  no  doubt 
on  the  mind  of  any  intelligent  spectator  that  he 
was  intended  for  a  representation  of  Mr.  William 
Shakespeare,  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  Paintings  of 
famous  players  of  the  day  stared  from  the  splendor 
20  293 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

of  heavy  gold  frames  with  expressions  of  unbridled 
ferocity  or  unquenchable  scorn  upon  the  man  who 
had  helped  to  make  them  famous.  Marble  busts 
on  marble  pedestals  were  ranged  about  the  room, 
being  stony  witness  to  Mr.  Heritage's  familiarity 
with  the  masters  of  the  past.  The  great  Grecians 
were  there  and  the  great  Romans  and  the  great 
Frenchmen.  Mr.  Heritage  could  fix  his  gaze  as  he 
pleased  upon  the  countenance  of  Sophocles  or  the 
countenance  of  Seneca  or  the  countenance  of 
Racine.  The  stranger  in  those  classic  shades  on 
finding  himself  confronted  with  the  portentous 
portraits  might  have  feared  for  a  moment  that  he 
had  made  his  way  by  mistake  into  the  Royal 
Academy,  and  on  discovering  the  busts  to  have 
imagined  himself  dreaming  a  bad  dream  amid  the 
Townley  marbles.  But  the  pictures  and  busts 
pleased  Mr.  Heritage,  and  so  long  as  a  thing  pleased 
him  he  cared  precious  little  for  other  people's 
opinion  of  it. 

A  curious  characteristic  of  the  room  was  that  it 
was  furnished  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  dispropor- 
tionate number  of  doors.  There  were,  in  the  first 
place,  the  two  double  doors  facing  the  windows. 
The  huge,  heavy  mahogany  portals,  with  their 
heavily  gilded  ornamentation,  communicated  with 
a  small  private  foyer  in  connection  with  the  royal 
box.  A  door  in  the  wall  to  the  right  of  this  opened 
on  to  a  small  staircase  which  led  to  the  front  of  the 
house.  A  similar  door  in  the  opposite  wall  served  as 
294 


IN    THE    ROTUNDO 

a  means  of  communication  with  the  stage-door. 
But  there  was  yet  another  door  in  the  room,  though 
this  was  one  that  seemed  to  exist  in  order  to  supply 
an  answer  to  the  time-honored  question,  when  is  a 
door  not  a  door.  It  did  not  look  like  a  door,  be- 
cause it  looked  like  a  massively  framed,  life-sized 
portrait  in  oils  of  Monsieur  Talma,  the  eminent 
French  actor,  in  one  of  his  favorite  classical  roles. 
But  it  was  a  door,  nevertheless,  and  it  would  be 
opened  by  the  pressing  of  a  spring  in  quite  the 
approved  melodramatic  fashion.  When  it  was  thus 
opened  it  revealed  a  small  passage  with  a  door  at 
the  end,  and  this  door  also  opened  by  the  pressing 
of  a  spring.  If  you  pressed  this  spring  the  door 
opened  and  you  found  yourself — to  your  surprise 
if  you  had  never  been  that  way  before — in  a  room 
in  a  house  directly  adjoining  the  theater  in  the 
street  where  the  stage-door  was.  The  secret  door 
of  this  room  seemed,  like  the  one  in  Mr.  Heritage's 
room,  to  be  no  more  than  a  massive  picture,  though 
this  time  its  subject  was  a  portrait  of  Mademoiselle 
Mars.  The  house  that  could  be  thus  mysteriously 
entered  was  occupied  by  an  old  housekeeper  of  Mr. 
Heritage's.  The  device  of  the  picture  and  the 
secret  passage  was  his,  and  he  had  found  it  very  use- 
ful many  times  and  in  many  ways.  Mr.  Heritage 
was  so  histrionic  in  his  spirit  that  he  never  employed 
this  means  of  disappearing  from  or  entering  into 
his  private  room  at  the  theater  without  experiencing 
such  a  thrill  as  an  emotional  audience  may  be  ex- 
295 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

pected  to  feel  when  the  employment  of  a  secret  panel 
allows  the  heroine  to  escape  or  delivers  the  villain 
to  unexpected  judgment.  Very  few  people  knew 
of  that  secret  door,  only  people  who  were  privileged 
to  be  very  deep  indeed  in  Mr.  Heritage's  confidence. 


II 

PAR   NOBILE    FRATRUM 

IN  a  corner  of  Mr.  Heritage's  room  there  stood 
a  great  mahogany  table,  so  placed  as  to  gain  the 
greatest  advantage  of  light  from  the  windows  when 
it  was  daytime.  This  was  the  table  at  which  Mr. 
Heritage  was  wont  to  sit  when  he  was  engaged 
about  his  correspondence  or  the  study  of  some  newly 
submitted  play.  It  was  a  spacious  table,  and  Mr. 
Heritage  liked  spacious  things  and  to  be  at  his  ease 
in  his  furniture.  At  the  particular  moment  of  a 
particular  evening  some  certain  number  of  days 
after  the  events  which  have  just  been  narrated  Mr. 
Heritage  was  not  in  his  room.  The  room  was 
brightly  illuminated  by  many  candelabra;  the  cur- 
tains of  crimson  velvet  were  snugly  drawn;  a  sea- 
coal  fire  glowed  comfortably  upon  the  hearth;  there 
was  a  generous  display  of  decanters  and  glasses 
upon  a  sideboard;  everything  about  the  disposition 
of  the  room  suggested  that  it  was  swept  and  gar- 
nished for  its  master's  delectation.  But  Mr.  Heri- 
tage was  not  there.  The  magnificent  frame  lacked 
its  essential  canvas. 

Nevertheless  the  room  was  not  unoccupied.     At 
297 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Heritage's  table,  though  not  indeed  in  Mr. 
Heritage's  own  august  chair,  there  sat  a  middle- 
aged  man,  whose  commonplace  clothes  seemed  to  be 
most  aptly  devised  to  match  his  commonplace  body 
and  his  commonplace  face.  Yet  for  all  his  apparent 
insignificance  the  individual  was  by  no  means  either 
an  insignificant  or  an  unimportant  factor  in  the 
social  economy  of  his  hour.  For  the  mean-looking 
little  man,  whose  countenance  rivaled  in  intelligence 
the  expression  of  the  average  rabbit,  was  none  other 
than  the  notorious  Mr.  Bowley,  of  The  Scourge,  the 
ferocious  censor  of  contemporary  manners  and 
morals,  who  could  always  be  relied  upon  to  bludgeon 
unmercifully  wherever  he  had  failed  to  blackmail. 
His  business  was,  metaphorically,  the  letting  of 
blood,  and  whether  he  accomplished  his  purpose  by 
the  slash  of  the  assassin  or  the  suction  of  the  leech, 
at  least  he  was  determined  to  accomplish  it. 

It  was  not,  indeed,  quite  all  one  to  him  how  he 
accomplished  it.  He  dearly  loved  to  slander  in 
print,  to  trip  the  heels  of  flighty  women,  to  pillory 
dubious  reputations,  and  to  hint  filthy  innuendoes 
about  reputations  yet  unshamed.  He  loved  to 
malign,  to  slander,  to  menace,  to  snarl,  to  snap; 
there  was  no  currish  trick,  no  mongrel  indecency, 
which  it  did  not  delight  him  to  practise.  But  if 
he  loved  to  void  his  spleen  in  the  vomitorium  of  his 
ruffian  journal,  he  also  dearly  loved  to  be  persuaded, 
by  the  copious  eloquence  of  gold,  from  publishing 
some  richly  garnished  libel  that  had  been  carefully 
298 


PAR    NOBILE    FRATRUM 

prepared  to  tickle  the  appetites  of  the  ghouls  for 
whom  he  cooked  his  mess  of  garbage.  Of  course 
what  he  liked  best  of  all  was  to  concoct  some  ob- 
scene lampoon,  bring  it  judiciously  under  the  notice 
of  his  victim  or  his  victim's  kin,  receive  for  the 
price  of  his  silence  the  utmost  blood  money  that  he 
could  screw  from  their  fears,  and  then  insidiously 
spread  the  poison  of  his  invective  through  the 
channel  of  some  other  journal  as  foul-smelling  as  his 
own,  and  so  sting  the  fools  he  had  already  swindled. 

This  double  delight  had  its  risks  and  had  to  be 
enjoyed  infrequently  and  with  a  judicious  care; 
but  the  single  delight  of  being  a  cruel  bully,  a 
cunning  liar,  a  listener  at  keyholes,  a  suborner  of 
servants,  this  could  be  tasted  and  was  tasted  by 
Mr.  Bowley  on  every  day  of  the  year.  It  kept  him 
alive,  it  served  him  with  that  reason  for  existing 
which  other  minds  find  in  ambition,  in  duty,  in  the 
honorable  desire  to  see  the  day's  good  work  well 
done  and  the  way  paved  for  the  good  work  of 
to-morrow.  Mr.  Bowley  thoroughly  liked  his  work. 

Unlike  the  pig  who  roots  for  tubers  that  he  may 
not  taste,  Mr.  Bowley' s  nasal  excavations  in  the 
rank  earth  of  scandal  afforded  him  a  physical 
gratification  and  a  pecuniary  advantage,  for  Provi- 
dence, that  in  its  wisdom  permitted  Mr.  Bowley 
to  publish  and  print  The  Scourge,  also  permitted  a 
considerable  number  of  the  public  that  were  sealed 
of  the  tribe  of  Mr.  Bowley  to  eat  the  dirt  he  offered 
them  and  to  take  pleasure  in  its  taste. 
299 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Bowley  at  the  moment  when  we  make  his 
acquaintance  was  seated  at  one  end  of  Mr.  Heri- 
tage's table,  and  very  busy  writing  hard  in  a  very 
fat  note-book  with  a  very  short  pencil.  What  he 
wrote  appeared  to  afford  him  entertainment,  for 
his  normally  unattractive  features  were  quickened 
into  a  quite  remarkable  repulsiveness  by  the  con- 
tortion of  a  malignant  grin.  He  was  so  taken  up 
with  writing  and  with  grinning  at  what  he  had 
written  that  it  is  probable  that  he  would  not  have 
heard  the  opening  of  the  great  double  doors  behind 
him  which  prefaced  the  entry  of  another  man  into 
the  room  were  it  not  for  an  attendant  circumstance. 
The  man  who  had  entered  the  room  had  entered 
very  quietly,  making  as  little  noise  as  possible  in 
his  gingerly  sundering  of  the  great  doors.  It  was 
his  way  always  thus  to  open  doors  gingerly,  thus 
to  creep  into  rooms  quietly.  That  was  the  plan  to 
take  people  unawares,  to  surprise  them,  perhaps, 
at  an  awkward  moment,  to  overhear  priceless  frag- 
ments of  conversation,  to  glean  golden  secrets. 
On  this  occasion  he  had  divided  the  mahogany 
panels  with  his  familiar,  silent  dexterity  and  had 
glided  through  the  aperture  with  his  wonted  quiet. 
But  in  the  moments,  and  they  were  very  few  mo- 
ments, in  which  he  had  to  keep  the  doors  apart  in 
order  to  permit  of  his  entrance  he  let  in  with  himself 
a  body  of  sound  that  had  the  instant  effect  of 
attracting  the  attention  of  Mr.  Bowley.  It  was  a 
very  peculiar  volume  of  sound.  It  would  have 
300 


PAR    NOBILE    FRATRUM 

suggested  to  those  ignorant  of  its  true  nature  that 
Mr.  Heritage  amused  himself  by  keeping  a  private 
menagerie,  and  that  the  moment  had  just  arrived 
when  the  wild  beasts  were  to  be  fed.  The  desert 
bellowings  of  lions,  the  jungle-shaking  growls  of 
tigers,  the  whining  of  wolves,  the  grumbling  of  bears, 
the  grunting  of  camels,  and  the  trumpeting  of  ele- 
phants seemed  to  unite  in  a  common  clamor  com- 
mixed with  which  could  seemingly  be  discerned  at 
intervals  the  croakings  of  carrion-birds  and  the 
screechings  of  an  uncountable  multitude  of  par- 
rots and  macaws. 

Mr.  Bowley,  diverted  from  his  note-book  by  the 
amazing  clamor  looked  up  with  no  surprise  on  his 
face,  but  with  a  distorted  and  hideously  displeasing 
grimace,which  he  intended  to  be  a  welcoming  smile, 
for  he  expected  that  the  new-comer  must  be  Mr. 
Heritage.  The  smile  faded  for  a  moment  as  he 
saw  that  the  new-comer  was  not  Mr.  Heritage  and 
recognized  who  the  new-comer  actually  was.  It 
then  reappeared  as  a  somewhat  perfunctory  grin. 
The  new-comer  did  not  appear  to  be  any  more  de- 
lighted to  receive  this  sign  of  recognition  than  Mr. 
Bowley  did  to  accord  it,  but  he  returned  it  by  a  curt 
nod  as  he  crossed  the  room,  and,  taking  a  seat  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  table  to  Mr.  Bowley,  produced 
his  note-book  and  his  pencil  and  prepared  to  write. 

So,  shall  we  say,  might  two  gladiators  approach 
each  other  in  the  anteroom  of  arenas,  warily  saluting 
each  other,  who  would  soon  be  seeking  as  warily  to 
301 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

destroy  each  other.  So  might  two  augurs  of  some 
brand-new  creed  favor  each  other  with  that  realizing 
scowl  which  admitted  that  they  had  at  least  this 
much  of  sympathy  between  them,  that  they  belonged 
to  the  fellowship  of  the  gullers  and  not  to  the  com- 
pany of  the  gullible  and  the  gulled. 

The  new-comer  was  a  taller,  leaner  man  than 
Mr.  Bowley,  with  a  face  more  markedly  sinister, 
and,  in  so  far  as  it  was  markedly  anything,  by  so 
much  less  repulsive  than  Mr.  Bowley's.  He  wore  a 
rusty  black  suit  that  afforded  glimpses  of  rusty 
linen,  and  his  angular  jaws  and  lank  cheeks  were 
rusty  from  at  least  two  days'  lack  of  shaving.  He 
looked  like  many  things.  He  might  have  been  a 
very  low-class  attorney  long  since  stricken  off  the 
rolls  but  earning  a  subterranean  livelihood  by 
vending  contraband  advice.  He  might  have  been 
an  undertaker  in  a  small  way  of  business,  con- 
demned to  reside  in  an  especially  salubrious  suburb. 
He  might  have  been  one  of  the  queer  hangers-on  of 
Bow  Street,  a  very  subordinate  thief  taker.  Also 
he  might  have  been  a  very  subordinate  thief.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  a  colleague,  a  very  dis- 
tinguished colleague,  and  a  rival,  a  very  formidable 
rival,  of  Mr.  Bowley. 

For  the  new-comer  was  none  other  than  Mr. 
Shadd,  Mr.  Abner  Shadd,  the  eminent  editor  of  that 
eminent  and  creditable  journal  The  Whistle.  Pub- 
lic opinion  differed  very  markedly  in  its  estimate 
of  the  merits  of  Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd. 
302 


PAR    NOBILE    FRATRUM 

There  were  those  who  maintained  that  Mr.  Bowley 
was  the  greater  blackguard  and  baser  knave  of  the 
pair,  but  those  that  held  this  view  were  the  un- 
fortunate individuals  who  happened,  by  the  visita- 
tion of  God,  to  have  some  personal  knowledge  of 
the  editor  of  The  Scourge.  Others  who  championed 
Mr.  Shadd's  claims  to  recognized  pre-eminence  in 
blackguardism  and  knavery  were  those  that  were 
privileged  to  boast  some  degree  of  intimacy  with 
the  character  of  Mr.  Shadd.  Mr.  Shadd  did  in 
The  Whistle  what  Mr.  Bowley  did  in  The  Scourge. 
He  blew  on  his  instrument  for  the  same  reason  that 
Mr.  Bowley  wielded  his.  His  ostensible  purpose, 
like  Mr.  Bowley's,  was  to  reform  society;  his  real 
purpose,  running  level  with  Mr.  Bowley's  real  pur- 
pose, was  to  fill  his  own  pockets  by  pandering  to 
the  meanest  and  filthiest  instincts  of  the  Yahoos 
that  exist  like  ticks  in  all  civilization.  Mr.  Shadd 
was,  perhaps,  a  finer  spirit  than  Mr.  Bowley.  At 
least  he  thought  that  he  was  and  said  that  he  was; 
he  claimed  to  be  more  of  the  true  satirist.  Bowley, 
he  insisted,  was  no  better  than  a  cudgel-player, 
while  he,  Shadd,  pinked  his  men  and  his  women, 
especially  his  women,  with  a  small  sword.  Such 
were  the  pair,  par  nobile  fratrum,  that  faced  each 
other  across  the  length  of  Mr.  Heritage's  mahogany. 


Ill 

TOWN  TALK 

THEY  are  still  going  it,  Mr.  Shadd  ?"  Bowley  in- 
quired  with  a  jerk  of  his  stumpy  pencil  in  the 
direction  of  the  door  through  which  the  editor  of  The 
Whistle  had  just  entered.  He  was  alluding  to  those 
mysterious  noises  which  had,  as  it  were,  gushed 
into  the  apartment  with  the  opening  of  the  portals, 
but  which  with  their  closing  had  been  lulled  into 
almost  complete  inaudibility.  It  is  true  that  any 
fine  ear  already  aware  of  those  distant  and  occult 
thunderings  might  when  the  doors  were  closed  still 
detect  a  faint,  a  twittering  susurration.  But  Mr. 
Heritage's  doors  were  so  nicely  calculated  to  shut 
out  all  disturbance  from  his  sacred  chamber  that 
only  a  fine  ear  primed,  if  it  may  so  be  said,  with 
previous  experience  would  be  pricked. 

Mr.  Shadd  smiled  a  malignant  smile  which  might 
in  so  far  be  said  to  light  up  his  countenance  as  it 
availed  to  accentuate  the  rusty,  dusty  shadows 
about  his  chin  and  cheeks.  "They  are  still  going 
it,  Mr.  Bowley/'  he  answered,  with  an  unlovely 
chuckle.  Any  stranger,  hearing  that  chuckle  must 
have  surmised  that  whatever  caused  it  was  some- 
3°4 


TOWN    TALK 

thing  of  a  very  unlovely  nature  indeed.  Mr. 
Bowley  leaned  back  and  rubbed  his  clumsy,  vulgar 
hands  in  malevolent  satisfaction. 

"It  is  amazing,"  he  ejaculated,  "simply  amaz- 
ing. This  is  the  fifth  night  of  it,  and  it  is  as  lively 
as  ever." 

Mr.  Shadd  leaned  his  meager  body  across  the 
table  and  prodded  the  air  in  the  direction  of  Mr. 
Bowley  with  a  dirty  finger  barbed  with  a  still  dirtier 
talon. 

"It  is  livelier  than  ever,  Mr.  Bowley,"  he  asserted 
in  emphatic  correction.  Mr.  Bowley  scratched  his 
head  persistently  with  his  stump  of  pencil. 

" I  had  not  the  time  to  look  in,"  he  confessed.  "I 
was  delayed  in  the  city  looking  after  that  business 
of  Alderman  Mulkin,  and  when  I  got  here  I  came 
straight  to  this  room  that  Heritage  has  given  us 
the  run  of  to  get  my  notes  in  order." 

Mr.  Shadd  made  a  contemptuous  gesture,  made 
a  contemptuous  grimace.  "The  Mulkin  business," 
he  said,  disdainfully;  "there  is  nothing  in  the 
Mulkin  business.  This  is  the  only  thing  worth 
troubling  about  in  London  just  now,  this,  of  course, 
with  its  attendant  trimmings.  You  make  a  mis- 
take, if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  my  dear  Bowley, 
in  pursuing  too  many  interests.  If  you  have  got  a 
good  thing  stick  to  it,  say  I,  and  this  is  the  best 
thing  we  have  had  for  many  a  long  day.  Really, 
we  gentlemen  of  the  press  have  much  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  Just  think  that  in  a  year  like  this,  a  devil 
305 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

of  a  year,  when  everything  seems  settled  for  good 
and  all,  Bonaparte  snuffed  out,  America  friendly, 
everything  as  dull  as  ditch  water,  we  have  got  the 
Rotundo  Theater  to  keep  us  going." 

He  rose  after  this  somewhat  lengthy  address  to  his 
colleague,  and  going  to  the  sideboard,  filled  himself 
out  a  glass  of  sherry.  "  May  I  ?"  he  questioned, 
politely,  with  a  glance  at  Mr.  Bowley.  Mr.  Bowley 
nodded,  and  rising  in  his  turn,  accepted  a  glass  of 
sherry  from  Mr.  Shadd's  extended  fingers.  It  was 
fortunate  for  Mr.  Bowley  that  he  was  not  a  man  of  a 
queasy  stomach,  or  the  sight  of  those  fingers  around 
the  stem  of  that  wine-glass  would  have  instantly 
killed  his  appetite  for  liquor.  Mr.  Shadd  held  up 
his  glass  and  eyed  its  golden  contents  affectionately. 
"Here's  to  'The  Buried  City,'"  he  said,  with  a 
wicked  grin,  and  tossed  off  his  drink  with  astonishing 
briskness.  Mr.  Bowley  repeated  the  toast  and  the 
action,  and  suggested  another  glass.  Mr.  Shadd 
complying,  the  two  men  faced  each  other  with  full 
glasses.  This  time,  according  to  all  the  rules  of 
decorous  drinking,  it  was  Mr.  Bowley's  turn  to 
propose  a  sentiment.  Mr.  Bowley  rose  to  the  oc- 
casion. "Mr.  Shadd,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  villainous 
twist  of  the  features,  "I  give  you  'The  Fair  Irish 
Maid.'" 

Both  men,  shrieking  in  eldrich   laughter    before 

they  emptied  their  glasses,  continued  to  shriek  after 

they  had  done  so  and  set  them  down,  continued  to 

shriek  even  after  they  had  returned  to  the  table  and 

306 


TOWN    TALK 

their  note-books,  as  if  that  toast  of  "The  Fair  Irish 
Maid"  were  the  most  mirth-provocative  subject  in 
the  world.  And  indeed  it  was  to  Mr.  Bowley  and  to 
Mr.  Shadd.  What  they  didn't  know  of  the  scandal, 
or,  at  least,  such  was  their  published  opinion, 
was  not  worth  knowing.  They  could  tell  and  they 
did  tell  every  reader  of  The  Whistle  and  The  Scourge 
the  ignominious  chapter  in  the  hitherto  triumphant 
history  of  "The  Fair  Irish  Maid,"  with  all  the  essen- 
tial preliminaries  and  all  the  more  or  less  specu- 
lative sequels.  They  knew  all  about  Crania's  enter- 
tainment of  a  ragged  fiddler  from  the  snowy  streets. 
Here  Mr.  Bowley  had  reason  to  be  grateful  to  John, 
and  Mr.  Shadd  had  reason  to  be  grateful  to  Thomas, 
or  vice  versa.  They  knew  all  about  the  legend  that 
this  same  beggarly  fiddler  was  an  old  flame  of  Miss 
O'Hara's  far  away  in  savage  Kerry  in  the  days  when 
she  hadn't  a  penny  and  lived  on  potatoes  and  went 
about  almost  naked.  They  knew  all  about  the  be- 
dizenment  of  the  fiddler  in  the  fine  clothes  of  Mr. 
Fenny.  There  were  too  many  in  that  secret  to  keep 
the  matter  long  from  the  claws  of  the  Bowleys  and 
the  Shadds  even  if  Grania  had  not  told  the  faithful 
Peregrine  that  there  wras  no  mystery  about  the 
matter  and  no  need  for  concealment. 

They  knew  all  about  the  banquet  at  Ashford 
House,  where  the  family  portraits  stared  and  sneered 
at  the  jackdaw  in  its  borrowed  plumes.  They  knew 
the  names  of  all  the  guests.  They  knew  of  Lady 
Doubble's  desperate  dead  set  at  the  sham  gentleman 
307 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

from  Kerry.  They  knew  of  that  same  sham 
gentleman's  foolish  and  facile  descent  down  the  hill 
of  intoxication.  They  knew  all  about  Dennis 
Tirowen's  drunken  announcement  to  the  assembled 
company  of  Mr.  Heritage's  acceptance  of  his  play. 
They  knew  all  about  Crania's  declaration  of  her 
engagement  to  Dennis  Tirowen,  and  Dennis  Tirow- 
en's  brutal  and  stupid  repudiation  of  her  gracious- 
ness. 

There  was  nothing  which  happened  at  Ashford 
House  on  that  eventful  evening  which  was  hidden 
from  the  malice  of  Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd.  In- 
deed, it  would  be  difficult  to  hide  anything  that  hap- 
pened in  Ashford  House  or  any  other  great  house  at 
any  time  from  the  malice  of  Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr. 
Shadd  so  long  as  the  house  supported  a  staff  of 
servants.  The  methods  of  Messrs.  Bowley  and 
Shadd  were  subterranean,  but  they  were  elaborate 
and  satisfactory  to  Messrs.  Bowley  and  Shadd. 
The  Whistle  blew  with  such  a  Jericho-devastating 
shriek,  The  Scourge  fell  with  such  ferocity  and  in- 
flicted such  lancinating  weals,  because  the  lips  of 
Mr.  Shadd  and  the  fingers  of  Mr.  Bowley  were  in- 
spired by  the  magnetic  current  of  the  servants' 
hall. 

Also  the  scavenger  birds  knew  of  the  sequel,  the 
series  of  sequels,  to  the  strange  scene  at  Ashford 
House  which  broke  up  the  party,  as  Mr.  Bowley 
had  happily  quoted,  in  such  "admired  disorder." 
They  knew  all  about  Lady  Doubble's  well-nigh 
308 


TOWN    TALK 

forcible  abduction  of  the  intoxicated  poet,  and  they 
knew  all  about  the  disastrous  failure  of  that  amaz- 
ing rape,  with  its  staggering  slap — metaphorically — 
in  Lady  Doubble's  amorous  face.  Messrs.  Shadd 
and  Bowley  were  both  on  intimate  terms  with  Lady 
Doubble's  coachman,  so,  though  what  they  knew 
was  surprising  enough,  it  was  not  at  all  surprising 
that  they  should  know  it. 

They  could  picture  easily  enough  Lady  Doubble's 
coach  with  its  double  load  of  passionate  femininity 
and  inebriated  masculinity  staggering  through  the 
darkness  of  the  February  night.  They  could  imag- 
ine, with  much  gloating,  the  blandishments  of  the 
lady  and  the  initial  passiveness  of  the  man.  It  was 
fairly  certain  that  there  came  a  moment  when  the 
advances  of  the  dame  had  a  wrong  effect  upon  their 
object,  for  it  seemed  that  before  the  carriage  had 
nearly  arrived  at  Lady  Doubble's  residence,  to 
which  her  ladyship  had  directed  her  coachman  to 
drive,  a  window  was  pulled  down  and  a  man's  head 
popping  through  the  aperture  bawled  at  the  coach- 
man to  stop.  The  coachman  incontinently  stop- 
ping, the  carriage-door  was  opened,  and  Mr.  Dennis 
Tirowen,  very  flustered  and  angry  and  quarrelsome, 
tumbled  out  into  the  slushy  rawness  of  the  night. 
According  to  the  information  received,  Mr.  Tirowen 
was  still  drunk,  but  not  so  drunk  as  he  had  been 
when  he  was  bundled  into  the  carriage  at  Ashford 
House.  From  the  darkness  of  the  carriage  came 
the  voice  of  Lady  Doubble  pleading  with  her  protege 
21  309 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

to  return  to  the  fold — the  metaphor  was  Mr. 
Bowley's — but  all  her  pleadings  were  in  vain,  for 
the  gentleman  only  grunted  out  some  words  of 
surly  refusal  and  went  shambling  and  staggering 
off  into  the  darkness,  a  resolute  devotee  of  conti- 
nence and  solitude.  He  made  his  way,  it  seems, 
lighted  by  the  kindly  star  that  sometimes  illumines 
the  footsteps  of  the  drunk,  to  Mr.  Penny's  lodgings 
in  Jermyn  Street.  There  he  spent  his  uneasy  night, 
while  Lady  Doubble  went  her  lonely  way  aban- 
doned and  infuriated.  Of  course  spretce  injuria 
fornuz  appeared  in  Mr.  Shadd's  malevolent  com- 
ments. 

The  information  of  Mr.  Bowley,  the  information 
of  Mr.  Shadd,  did  not  end  here.  If  they  had  noth- 
ing more  of  moment  to  record  for  that  particular 
evening,  the  succeeding  days  were  fruitful  of  inci- 
dents. There  was,  to  begin  with,  the  duel  between 
Captain  Curtius  Loveless  and  Mr.  Tirowen,  which 
was  risible  enough  to  divert  the  most  cynical 
of  Londoners.  Undoubtedly  after  the  blow  aimed 
at  Captain  Curtius  by  Mr.  Tirowen  nothing  but 
the  arbitrament  of  arms  could  be  expected. 
At  the  same  time  that  blow  was  the  consequence, 
the  direct  consequence,  of  certain  words  addressed 
by  Captain  Loveless  to  Mr.  Tirowen  which  no 
gentleman  of  spirit  could  be  expected  to  hear  without 
felling — or  attempting  to  fell — the  speaker  to  the 
earth.  It  might  be  a  question  for  a  court  of 
honor  to  decide  which  was  the  actual  aggressor, 
310 


TOWN    TALK 

which  the  direct  provoker,  to  the  field.  But  there 
could  be  no  question  as  to  the  necessity  for  a  meet- 
ing unless  the  parties  concerned  were  willing  to 
wipe  the  slate  of  contention  clean  by  withdrawing 
and  apologizing,  the  one  for  his  well-aimed  words 
and  the  other  for  his  ill-aimed  blow. 

It  was  no  secret — every  one  knew  it,  including 
Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd — that  the  gentlemen 
acting  for  the  principals  in  the  dispute,  Mr. 
Fenny  and  My  Lord  Cloyne  for  Captain  Love- 
less and  Mr.  Pointdexter  and  Mr.  John  Rubie, 
M.  P.,  for  Mr.  Tirowen,  were  anxious  to  come 
to  some  amicable  arrangement.  To  this  it  was 
generally  believed,  and  the  belief  was  duly  strength- 
ened by  Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd,  that  the  pair 
of  seconds  were  led  by  the  direct  pressure  of  the 
wishes  of  Miss  O'Hara  herself.  Undoubtedly 
the  duel  promised  to  be  a  serious  business  for  the 
adventurer  from  Kerry.  Captain  Curtius  was  prob- 
ably the  finest  pistol-shot  in  all  England — he  could 
hit  an  ace  of  spades  at  thirty  paces  as  long  as 
there  was  anything  of  it  left  to  hit — and  Mr.  Tiro- 
wen,  in  the  popular  phrase,  did  not  know  one  end 
of  a  pistol  from  the  other. 

This  in  itself  was  not  enough  to  prevent  the  duel 
from  taking  place.  If  a  choleric  gentleman,  in  his 
cups,  goes  so  far  as  to  strike  or  seek  to  strike  an- 
other gentleman,  he  cannot  hope  to  escape  the  con- 
sequences of  his  act  because  he  does  not  happen  to 
know  how  to  shoot  straight.  But  the  whole  affair 
3" 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

was  an  awkward  one.  Miss  O'Hara  was  desirous 
that  the  thing  (the  disturbance  at  Ashford  House), 
should  win  as  little  publicity  as  possible — Mr. 
Bowley  chuckled  and  Mr.  Shadd  chuckled  to  think 
that  the  gratification  of  this  desire  was  denied  to  the 
hitherto  overfortunate  young  lady — and  it  was 
pretty  generally  believed  that  she  had  made  an 
appeal  to  Captain  Loveless,  to  which  Captain  Love- 
less had  generously  responded.  He,  confident  in 
his  matchless  reputation  as  a  pistol-shot,  was 
affable  enough  to  express  his  willingness  to  let  the 
matter  drop.  That  was  what  he  would  do.  He 
would  neither  apologize  nor  ask  for  an  apology; 
he  would  just  agree  to  consider  that  the  incident 
had  not  occurred.  This  was  so  far  satisfactory,  but, 
to  the  surprise  of  all  concerned,  or  at  least  of  most 
of  those  concerned,  it  was  the  Irishman  who  proved 
intractable.  Mr.  Tirowen  positively  insisted  on  the 
duel  being  carried  out.  If  Captain  Loveless  refused, 
then  Mr.  Tirowen  announced  his  intention  of  way- 
laying the  gallant  officer  in  some  public  place  and 
repeating  his  original  offense  and  so  forcing  the 
gallant  Captain  to  face  his  uncertain  weapon. 

Mr.  Bowley  chuckled  and  Mr.  Shadd  chuckled 
as  they  recalled  how  the  obstinate  Irishman  was 
afforded  satisfaction.  Captain  Loveless  could  not 
do  less,  for  his  reputation's  sake  and  his  cloth's,  than 
consent  to  meet  this  incorrigible  fire-eater.  He  was 
most  loath  either  to  kill  or  maim  his  persistent 
enemy  on  account  of  the  pain  it  must  cause  Miss 
312 


TOWN    TALK 

O'Hara,  for  whom  he  professed  a  chivalrous  re- 
gard. (The  idea  of  any  man  entertaining  a 
chivalrous  regard  for  any  woman  caused  Messrs. 
Shadd  and  Bowley  to  indulge  in  paroxysms  of 
obscene  mirth.)  Captain  Loveless  declared  to  his 
adversary's  seconds  that  he  was  perfectly  willing  to 
fire  in  the  air  on  the  occasion  of  the  encounter,  but 
that  he  was,  naturally,  unwilling  to  be  made  the  help- 
less target  for  his  opponent's  fire.  However  igno- 
rant a  civilian  might  be  of  the  proper  employment 
of  firearms,  there  was  always  the  whimsical  chance 
that  he  might  by  misadventure  hit  his  mark.  Then 
it  was  that  Mr.  Pointdexter  came  to  the  rescue.  He 
undertook  to  see  that  his  principal's  weapon  should 
be  a  guileless  instrument  loaded  only  with  a  little 
harmless  powder  and  guiltless  of  ball.  Under  these 
mirific  conditions  the  duel  took  place  and  all  went  as 
arranged.  The  antagonists  duly  faced  each  other. 
When  the  signal  was  given  Captain  Curtius  fired  at 
the  sky,  and  Mr.  Tirowen,  making  the  best  aim  he 
could  at  his  enemy  with  deadly  intent,  blazed  away, 
and  did  no  manner  of  mischief. 


IV 

THE    INSULT   TO    POET   CRINCH 

THE  fashionable  world,  thanks  to  the  whispers, 
asides,  innuendoes,  and  suggestions  of  Mr. 
Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd  and  their  kind,  had  been 
highly  diverted  by  the  Loveless-Tirowen  duel. 
Mr.  Tirowen,  as  a  professed  poet  and  a  native  of 
Ireland,  was  congratulated  on  having  at  least  one 
resemblance  to  his  illustrious  countryman  and  con- 
temporary Mr.  Thomas  Moore  in  that  he  had 
played  a  part  in  a  Hudibrastic  duello.  The  pun- 
gent paragraphs  that  made  society  smile  made  Mr. 
Tirowen  writhe.  Mr.  Tirowen,  now  very  plenti- 
fully in  funds,  thanks  to  a  meeting  with  Mr.  Heritage 
at  the  Rotundo  on  the  morning  after  his  calamitous 
escapade  at  Ashford  House,  had  retired  from  Mr. 
Fenny' s  lodgings,  and  on  Mr.  Fenny's  recommen- 
dation had  ensconced  himself  in  the  comfortable,  if 
costly,  seclusion  of  Thomas's  Hotel.  There  he 
sulked — the  simile  came  from  the  classical  Mr. 
Shadd — like  Achilles  in  his  tent.  He  sallied  thence 
to  fight  his  famous  duel.  There  he  had  the  dis- 
pleasure of  reading  the  badinage  of  the  journalists; 
there  he  fumed  to  find  himself  a  laughing-stock. 
3H 


THE  INSULT  TO  POET  CRINCH 

Very  soon,  however,  society  had  other  food  for  mirth 
and  our  Dennis  other  things  to  think  of  than  the 
famous  duel. 

By  this  time  "The  Buried  City/'  Mr.  Tirowen's 
play,  was  in  rehearsal  at  the  Rotundo,  and  very  soon 
the  evening  of  its  first  performance  duly  arrived. 
Never  was  such  a  first  performance  remembered  in 
London  since  the  production  of  "Vortigern  and 
Rowena."  Mr.  Bowley  dug  Mr.  Shadd  in  the  ribs, 
and  Mr.  Shadd  prodded  Mr.  Bowley  in  the  stomach, 
as  they  recapitulated,  with  inextinguishable  laugh- 
ter, the  events  of  that  astonishing  evening.  The 
overture,  "The  Soul  of  Erin,"  was  received  in 
silence,  and  the  curtain  rose  for  an  audience  seem- 
ingly assembled,  and  for  the  most  part  actually 
assembled,  for  the  workaday  purpose  of  seeing  a  new 
play  by  an  unknown  author.  But  the  first  line  had 
not  been  spoken  before  the  hubbub  began.  Some 
one  in  a  corner  of  the  pit  shouted  out  an  indignant 
demand  that  the  play  should  be  immediately  taken 
off.  While  the  interruption  was  being  resented  by 
the  immediate  and  unsophisticated  neighbors  of  the 
interrupter  another  disturbance  began  in  another 
portion  of  the  parterre,  which  was  speedily  followed 
up  by  a  series  of  like  outbreaks  in  different  parts  of 
the  house. 

As  far  as  the  interrupters  seemed  to  have  any 
purpose  in  their  interruptions,  it  appeared  that  they 
resented  the  production  of  "The  Buried  City"  be- 
cause it  had  caused  the  postponement  of  a  play 
3*5 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

previously  announced  for  production  by  Mr.  Heri- 
tage, a  play  by  an  author  in  whom  up  to  that  time 
playgoing  London  had  taken  no  manner  of  interest. 
Now,  however,  it  suddenly  was  made  to  appear  that 
to  a  section,  and  a  mighty  quarrelsome  and  bellige- 
rent section,  of  Londoners  the  postponement  of 
this  play  was  no  less  than  a  national  calamity  of  the 
gravest  character.  The  play  in  question  was  a 
tragedy  entitled  "Titus,  or  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem," 
by  a  Mr.  Philip  Crinch,  who  with  infinite  pains  had 
gained  a  recognized  place  among  those  authors 
whose  work  can  be  put  on  at  any  time  without  risk, 
if  without  renown.  By  anticipating  a  little  the 
knowledge  of  Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd,  and  mak- 
ing use  of  the  later  record  of  Mr.  Redacre,  it  is 
feasible  to  state  that  "Titus,  or  the  Fall  of  Jerusa- 
lem," was  afterward  produced  at  another  theater, 
attracted  some  curiosity  on  account  of  the  Rotundo 
riots,  which  had  forced  it  into  notoriety,  and  failed 
to  make  any  impression. 

But  on  that  first  evening  of  "The  Buried  City," 
and  for  many  evenings  afterward,  it  seemed  certain 
that  a  large  number  of  enthusiastic  playgoers  were 
convinced  that  a  grave  injustice  had  been  done  to 
Mr.  Crinch  in  the  first  place  and  to  all  true  lovers 
of  the  drama  in  the  second  place  by  the  retardation 
of  "Titus"  and  the  presentation  in  its  place  of  a 
work  by  an  unknown  author  who  was  openly  re- 
ported to  be  an  Irishman  and  a  rebel.  Mr.  Crinch's 
friends — hitherto  wholly  unknown  to  that  most 
316 


THE  INSULT  TO  POET  CRINCH 

worthy  mediocrity — made  flagrant  proof  of  their 
affection  for  him  and  their  prophetic  admiration  for 
"Titus,  or  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem,"  on  that  first 
night.  As  fast  as  a  clamorous  voice  was  silenced 
in  one  part  of  the  house  protest  broke  out  in  another, 
to  be  succeeded  in  unbroken  succession  by  similar 
interruptions. 

The  Crinchites,  as  they  came  to  be  called,  had 
laid  their  plans  and  aimed  their  strategy  well.  They 
leavened  the  lump  of  that  first  night  audience  to  a 
surprising  extent,  and  their  tactics  were  so  successful 
that  not  a  syllable  of  the  first  act  was  permitted  to 
float  across  the  footlights.  A  few  ejections  were 
made  in  the  interval,  but  the  storm  broke  out  again 
on  the  rising  of  the  curtain  on  the  second  act,  and 
silenced  that  act  as  effectively  as  the  first  had  been 
silenced.  In  vain  did  Mr.  Heritage,  at  once  fright- 
ened and  furious,  make  personal  appeal  to  the 
audience,  standing,  an  incongruous  figure  of  modern- 
ity, in  the  midst  of  his  bewildered  players  huddled 
together  in  the  garments  of  a  romantic  age.  He 
that  had  been  the  Jupiter  of  his  theatrical  temple  was 
treated  as  unceremoniously  as  the  play  had  been 
treated.  Unless  he  would  consent  to  withdraw 
"The  Buried  City"  and  set  up  "Titus"  in  its  stead 
he  should  not  be  accorded  a  hearing  on  the  boards  of 
his  own  stage. 

Mr.  Heritage,  not  unnaturally  losing  his  temper, 
endeavored  to  continue  a  policy  of  ejectment  of  the 
offenders  against  the  decorum  of  his  theater,  but  it 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

soon  became  evident  that  there  were  far  too  many 
Crinchites  in  the  Rotundo  to  be  dealt  with  satisfac- 
torily in  that  manner.  The  uproar  waxed  momen- 
tarily; the  fiery  cross  of  insurrection  seemed  to  fly 
from  point  to  point,  kindling  enthusiasm  in  its 
course.  "The  Buried  City"  was  buried  anew 
under  waves  of  sound. 

The  story  of  that  astonishing  first  night  flew  over 
London,  and  made  the  Rotundo  the  Temple  of 
Curiosity  and  "The  Buried  City"  the  one  subject 
of  discourse.  The  desire  to  witness  the  perform- 
ance that  had  been  provocative  of  so  much  protest 
was  enormous.  Had  the  Rotundo  been  like  that 
tent  in  the  Eastern  story  which  could  be  carried  on 
the  palm  of  the  hand  and  that  yet  would  on  the  wish 
expand  to  shelter  an  army,  its  powers  of  extension 
would  have  been  sorely  tried.  As  it  was,  it  could 
only  entertain  a  small  number  of  those  that  were 
anxious  to  be  present,  but  those  that  were  fortunate 
enough  to  obtain  admittance  were  certainly  not 
disappointed.  They  saw  "The  Buried  City,"  but 
they  did  not  hear  a  single  word  of  it.  The  pro- 
ceedings of  the  previous  evening  were  repeated 
with  an  increased  ferocity  which,  as  Mr.  Shadd 
happily  remarked,  reduced  the  business  of  the  stage 
to  "inexplicable  dumb-shows." 

Once  again  the  fierce  clamor  for  the  slighted 
masterpiece  of  the  illustrious  Crinch  made  the 
lusters  of  the  chandelier  shiver.  This  time,  how- 
ever, the  Crinchites  found  themselves  faced  by  a  more 


THE  INSULT  TO  POET  CRINCH 

formidable  opposition  than  they  had  encountered  on 
the  previous  evening.  Mr.  Heritage,  determined 
not  to  be  taken  unawares,  had  made  a  levy  of  sturdy 
swashbucklers  to  preserve  the  peace,  had  enlisted  a 
brotherhood  of  noted  bruisers,  that  was  dispersed 
about  the  auditorium  fired  with  liquor  and  enthusi- 
asm for  "The  Buried  City."  The  Crinchites  got  the 
worst  of  it  on  that  evening  as  far  as  physical  contest 
was  concerned.  Man  after  man  of  the  disturbers 
was  haled  from  the  theater  howling  undaunted  his 
demand  for  "Titus."  But  there  were  enough  of 
them  present  to  wreck  the  performance.  A  policy 
of  ejection,  even  if  carefully  organized,  takes  time, 
and  the  result  of  the  battle  was  that  once  again  the 
poor  players  were  unable  to  send  a  single  syllable  of 
"The  Buried  City"  to  any  expectant  ear. 

On  the  following  night  the  real  fun  might  be  said 
to  have  begun,  the  fun  that  had  endured  without  ces- 
sation to  this  very  evening  on  which  Mr.  Bowley  and 
Mr.  Shadd  sat  facing  each  other  at  Mr.  Heritage's 
table.  For  if  one  side  to  a  controversy  can  engage 
the  services  of  professional  pugilists  to  support  its 
views  by  force  of  arms,  so  can,  and  in  this  case  so 
did,  the  other.  Whoever  was  inspiring  the  ardor  of 
the  Crinchites  was  evidently  prepared  to  back  that 
ardor  with  stout  strokes.  Bulky  members  of  the 
Fancy  asserted  a  thunderous  admiration  for  the 
genius  of  Crinch,  and  emphasized  their  admiration 
by  planting  smashing  blows  on  the  countenances  of 
those  that  failed  to  share  it.  Greek  met  Greek,  as 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Bowley  aptly  remarked,  and  the  agitated  pit  was 
promptly  converted  into  an  exaggerated  prize-ring, 
where  splendid  mercenaries  slogged  hard  on  either 
side. 

Thenceforward  the  Rotundo  was  the  one  place  in 
which  anybody  who  was  anybody  wished  to  be. 
Nightly  the  din  of  battle  reigned  in  the  unfortunate 
playhouse,  nightly  the  subaltern  giants  of  the  noble 
art  contended  unfamiliarly  in  a  literary  quarrel. 
News  of  the  Homeric  struggle  spread  into  the  coun- 
try and  brought  exiled  Londoners  hurrying  to  town, 
spurning  the  muddy  roads  in  their  eagerness  to 
witness  what  were  now  known  as  the  Rotundo 
riots.  Among  these  zealots  was  no  less  a  person 
than  my  Lord  Byron,  who  actually  was  willing  to 
spare  a  few  hours  from  newly  married  rusticity 
in  order  to  have  at  least  a  spectator's  share  in  the 
sport  that  was  toward.  His  lordship,  as  Mr.  Shadd 
informed  Mr.  Bowley,  was  present  in  the  house  that 
very  evening,  and  professed,  it  seemed,  much  inter- 
est in  the  feud  and  much  curiosity  as  to  the  cause 
of  it. 

Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd  believed  that  they 
knew  well  enough  who  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Rotundo  riots.  "Hell  has  no  fury  like  a  woman 
scorned"  was  the  felicitous  quotation  of  one  of  the 
pair  in  one  of  their  papers,  and  the  woman  scorned 
whom  Mr.  Bowley  had  in  his  mind  was  Lady 
Doubble.  Who  but  she  had  the  instigation  to 
revenge  herself  upon  a  fellow  presumptuous  enough 
320 


THE  INSULT  TO  POET  CRINCH 

to  reject  her  proffered  friendship  and  to  slight  her 
charms.  Mr.  Bowley  believed  that  Lady  Doubble 
would  have  been  willing  enough  to  see  Mr.  Dennis 
fall  before  the  pistol  of  Captain  Loveless,  and  that 
if  she  had  had  her  way  the  duel  would  have  taken 
place  according  to  the  established  code.  Failing  in 
this,  for  the  influence  of  Miss  O'Hara  proved  more 
potent  than  hers  with  the  gallant  captain,  Lady 
Doubble,  baffled  in  one  direction,  sought,  and  indeed 
found,  satisfaction  in  another.  She  had  serviceable 
friends,  she  had  abundance  of  money,  she  suddenly 
discovered  the  merits  and  the  wrongs  of  Mr.  Crinch, 
and  she  found  means  to  inspire  a  goodly  number  of 
persons  with  sympathy  with  those  merits  and  those 
wrongs.  Here,  according  to  Mr.  Bowley — and  who 
shall  say  that  he  was  wrong  ? — was  to  be  found  the 
secret  cause  of  astonishing  manifestations  that  abide 
in  history  as  the  Rotundo  riots. 

Mr.  Shadd,  however,  supported  another  theory. 
He  agreed,  of  course,  with  the  "woman  scorned" 
doctrine,  but  his  woman  scorned  was  not  Mr.  Bow- 
ley's  woman  scorned.  Mr.  Shadd's  candidate  for 
that  post  of  distinction  was  no  other  than  "  The 
Fair  Irish  Maid  "—Miss  O'Hara  herself.  Who,  he 
asked,  had  more  occasion  to  feel  hostile  toward  the 
Irish  dramatist  than  the  young  lady  who  had  been 
publicly  flouted  in  her  own  house  and  in  the  presence 
of  her  friends  by  that  same  dramatist  ?  What  better 
revenge  could  she  find  for  her  affronted  feelings  than 
a  public  damnation  of  her  uncivil  lover's  play  ?  Miss 
321 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

O'Hara,  according  to  Mr.  Shadd,  was  the  Goddess 
of  Reason  of  the  Rotundo  Revolution.  She  it  was 
who  hired  the  bravoes,  she  it  was  who  patronized 
Mr.  Crinch,  she  it  was  who  prevented  a  not  very 
curious  public  from  hearing  a  single  word  of  "The 
Buried  City"  by  providing  that  public  with  an 
entertainment  much  more  kindling  to  its  curiosity. 

Mr.  Bowley  so  far  temporized  with  Mr.  Shadd  as 
to  admit  that  Miss  O'Hara  and  Lady  Doubble  might 
be  partners  in  the  conspiracy  against  "The  Buried 
City."  But  Mr.  Shadd  was  for  no  such  compromise. 
He  could  not  see  that  Lady  Doubble  had  any  place 
in  an  enterprise  which  for  him  was  entirely  engi- 
neered by  the  magnificent  malice  of  Grania  O'Hara. 


A   ROMAN    HOLIDAY 

ON  this  particular  evening  when  Mr.  Bowley 
and  Mr.  Shadd  discoursed  in  Mr.  Heritage's 
room  and  discussed  the  one  subject  of  the  town's  talk, 
the  eruption  of  insurrection  and  counter-insurrec- 
tion within  the  walls  of  the  Rotundo  was  at  its  worst 
so  far.  It  was  therefore  a  consolation  to  such  loyal 
citizens  as  the  editor  of  The  Whistle  and  the  editor 
of  The  Scourge  that  this  was  the  evening  which  had 
been  chosen  by  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince 
Regent  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  theater  and  to  see  for 
himself  the  sport  of  which  all  the  world  was  talking. 
The  news  of  His  Royal  Highness's  intention  to  be 
present  spread  as  such  news  will  spread,  and  at- 
tracted to  the  tempest-tossed  theater  a  more  than 
usually  brilliant  company  of  spectators.  That  all 
the  members  of  the  new  Princes'  set  should  attend 
was  a  matter  of  course,  but  a  goodly  number  of  the 
old  guard  rallied  round  their  semi-sovereign  for  the 
occasion,  Captain  Morris  and  My  Lord  Coleraine 
conspicuous  among  them.  Mr.  Brummell,  fiddling, 
as  it  were,  while  Rome  was  burning — Mr.  Shadd 
again — wore  his  most  wonderful  composition  to 
323 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

grace  the  battle.  Mr.  Redacre  flitted  from  box  to 
box,  the  busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly  of  all  and  any 
gossip.  My  Lord  Byron  assured  his  friends  that 
the  married  state  was  ideal,  and  Henry  Averill 
regarded  everybody  and  everything  with  his  habitual 
suave  disdain. 

The  scene  which  His  Royal  Highness  had  the 
pleasure  of  surveying  was  certainly  sufficiently 
astonishing.  It  was  indeed  a  repetition  of  a  scene 
that  had  been  enacted  now  for  many  successive 
evenings,  but  with  each  performance  it  became  more 
charged  with  dramatic  intensity.  The  whole  of  the 
theater  was  filled  to  overflowing.  The  world  of 
fashion,  the  world  of  literature,  the  world  of  art, 
nightly  sent  its  representatives  to  throng  the  more 
expensive  parts  of  the  house.  But  while  the  occu- 
pants of  the  boxes  and  balcony  came  in  their  hun- 
dreds, and  often  came  more  than  once  and  more 
than  twice,  they  came  for  the  most  part  solely  to  act 
as  spectators.  The  real  theater  for  them  was  not 
the  boarded  stage,  but  the  spacious  area  of  the  pit, 
which  ever  since  the  disturbance  of  the  first  night 
was  packed  with  those  that  lusted  for  battle. 

The  ceremonial  on  this  occasion,  as  on  all  occa- 
sions since  the  beginning  of  these  whimsical  riots, 
was  the  same.  It  was  followed  with  as  much 
formality  as  if  it  had  been  an  ordered  portion  of  the 
programme.  Silence  reigned  in  the  densely  thronged 
house  while  the  overture,  which  was  founded  upon 
"The  Soul  of  Erin,"  had  concluded  and  the  curtain 
324 


A    ROMAN    HOLIDAY 

had  risen  on  the  beautifully  painted  first  scene  of 
"The  Buried  City." 

But  with  the  first  words  spoken  on  the  stage,  with 
the  utterance  of  the  first  syllables  of  Dennis  Tiro- 
wen's  nobly  molded  blank  verse,  the  signal  for  in- 
surrection was  given  in  the  house,  the  standard  of 
rebellion  raised.  A  chorus  of  voices  instantly  rose 
demanding  the  immediate  cessation  of  the  play,  a 
chorus  that  swelled  in  volume  with  every  second  and 
made  it  impossible  for  the  players  to  make  them- 
selves heard.  This  rude  and  noisy  challenge  was 
instantly  answered  by  the  counter-chorus  of  those, 
and  they  were  many  and  leathern-lunged,  that  for 
one  reason  or  another  befriended  the  piece  and  that 
insisted  upon  the  performance  being  allowed  to 
proceed.  For  a  while  these  clamors  would  con- 
tinue, sometimes  waning  a  little,  sometimes  waxing 
as  wild  winds  wane  and  wax  in  a  storm,  but  always 
drowning  absolutely  all  sound  of  speech  upon  the 
stage.  There  the  players,  no  longer  frightened  as 
they  had  been  the  first  night  by  the  unexpected 
attack,  moved  through  their  parts  and  muttered 
their  words  with  as  much  indifference  as  they  could 
assume  for  the  conflict  that  raged  beyond  the  foot- 
lights, a  conflict  that  iteration  seemed  to  assure  them 
must  needs  endure  as  long  as  Mr.  Heritage  persisted 
in  putting  "The  Buried  City"  upon  his  stage. 

It  did  not  take  long,  however,  for  the  quarrel  in 
the  pit  that  converted  its  habitual  decorum  into  a 
parliament  of  shrieks  to  become  something  more 

22  325 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

than  a  war  of  words.  For  a  while  nothing  more 
violent  would  happen  than  the  rival  shouts  of  the 
hostile  factions,  and  the  amused  and  delighted 
spectators  up-stairs  had  their  ears  chiefly  appealed 
to  by  the  brawl,  and  had  nothing  more  on  which  to 
feast  their  eyes  than  an  ocean  of  crimson  faces 
with  gaping  mouths  that  shouted  war-cries  or 
swollen  cheeks  that  sucked  in  the  breath  of  new 
efforts.  Certain  collocations  of  words  had  already 
become  the  battle-calls  of  the  two  factions.  Those 
that  were  opposed  to  the  production  of  "The  Buried 
City"  had  got  into  the  habit  of  intoning  like  a 
chant  the  words  "Crinch,  Crinch,  give  us  Crinch/' 
which  when  repeated  monotonously  by  a  hundred 
voices  had  a  very  stupefying  effect  upon  its  hearers. 
The  partisans  of  "The  Buried  City/'  however  in- 
spired, had  taken  a  Celtic  hint  for  their  slogan,  and 
thundered  "Tirowen  aboo!"  with  all  the  breath  and 
energy thatwas  in  them.  So  long  as  the  strifewas  one 
of  words  so  long  did  these  two  sentences  challenge 
each  other,  bellowed  with  a  faithful  fury  by  either  side. 
Then  some  fierce  demonstrator  for  or  against  the 
play,  growing  more  excitable  with  the  rising  tide  of 
the  din,  would  suddenly  feel  that  it  was  high  time  for 
him  to  push  or  jostle  or  menace  with  brutal  extremi- 
ties of  physical  violence  some  other  vociferous  dem- 
onstrator whose  opinion  for  or  against  the  per- 
formance did  not  agree  with  his  own.  The  ritual 
of  action  thus  once  set  in  motion  followed  on  its 
ordered  course.  The  person  pushed  or  menaced 
326 


A    ROMAN    HOLIDAY 

invariably  retaliated  with  a  vigor  and  ferocity  at 
least  equal  to  that  of  his  aggressor.  Then  the  spec- 
tators above,  the  fine  ladies  of  fashion,  and  the 
dandies,  and  the  bloods,  the  men  of  letters,  the 
men  of  art,  the  men  of  law,  all  who  belonged  to  so- 
ciety or  could  seem  to  belong  to  it  by  paying  for 
expensive  seats,  were  afforded  an  example  of  two 
hot-headed  Londoners  bustling  in  front  of  each 
other,  squaring  awkwardly  at  first  and  punching  like 
clumsy  school-boys  afterward,  amid  shrieks,  jeers, 
and  encouragements  of  those  immediately  above  the 
combatants.  For  the  most  part  encouragements 
prevailed,  each  faction  being  anxious  to  back  its  own 
champion  who  had  proceeded  from  words  to  deeds 
in  attack  upon  or  defense  of  the  unfortunate  play. 
Generally  this  first  brawl  was  thrashed  out  rapidly 
and  ended  in  the  opponents  being  separated  by  the 
partizans  of  whichever  warrior  was  getting  the  worse 
of  it.  But  very  soon  the  example  of  this  earliest 
duel  would  be  followed  by  another  pair  in  some 
other  part  of  the  house  whose  hot  blood  could  no 
longer  be  contented  by  mere  bellowings,  and  the 
example  thus  reset  would  be  imitated  again  by 
others  that  sat  or  stood  in  the  vicinity  of  these  bat- 
tlers or  a  little  farther  off.  These  sporadic  combats 
would  multiply  at  first  slowly  and  then  swiftly,  until 
the  contagion  of  strife  spread  the  game  of  fisticuffs 
all  over  the  arena  of  the  pit,  and  the  excited  beholders 
tarred  on  the  combatants  as  the  nobility  of  old  Rome 
tarred  on  its  gladiators. 

327 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

The  game  of  fisticuffs,  and  not  fisticuffs  alone. 
Battle  breeds  battle.  Hot-tempered  humanity,  see- 
ing its  fellows  contending  and  finding  the  raw 
knuckles  of  clenched  fingers  insufficiently  potent  for 
the  settlement  of  the  dispute,  took  with  enthusiasm 
to  more  truculent  instruments  of  strife.  Men 
brandished  bludgeons,  men  twirled  canes  provoca- 
tively, and  were  responded  to  by  other  men  that 
twirled  canes  and  brandished  bludgeons,  and  pres- 
ently bludgeons  and  canes  alike  descended  on  con- 
venient heads  and  shoulders  and  were  struggled 
for  and  snatched  away  and  used  in  retaliation  and 
sometimes  broken  and  their  fragments  flung  abroad 
over  the  contending  sea  of  furious  warriors.  The 
pit  became  the  scene  of  an  Iliad  that  only  needed  its 
rhapsodist  to  rise  to  epic  dignity,  and  as  the  conflict 
grew  so  grew  the  attendant  din. 

Those  that  were  not  actually  in  the  thick  of  the 
fight,  recognizing  the  fallibility  of  any  attempt  of  the 
human  voice,  however  it  might  rival  the  bull  of 
Bashan  to  dominate  such  a  hubbub  with  any  hope  of 
effective  dominion  or  even  assertion,  resorted  to 
artificial  modes  of  interpreting  their  emotions. 
They  produced  from  recesses  of  their  garments  all 
manner  of  contrivances,  imported  for  the  purpose  in 
hope  of  opportunity.  They  displayed  tin  trumpets, 
whistles,  cat-calls,  and  kindred  noise-compelling 
instruments,  and  played  upon  them  with  all  the 
strength  of  their  lungs,  till  the  air  reeled  and  sickened 
with  the  hideous  cacophony.  Maddened  by  this 
328 


A    ROMAN    HOLIDAY 

infernal  music,  the  heady  battle  would  continue, 
violence  intensifying  violence,  brutality  accumulat- 
ing, savagery  increasing,  in  the  fever  of  the  fight. 
Coats  were  torn  off,  shirts  rent  to  ribbons,  wigs 
tossed  high  in  air.  On  all  sides  noses  were  bleeding, 
eyes  were  blackened,  lips  were  split,  and  knuckles 
barked,  and  the  bedlam  of  battle  persisted  so  long  as 
the  act  endured. 

But  the  moment  that  the  last  word  of  the  act  was 
spoken,  the  moment,  rather,  that  the  unfortunate 
actor  or  actress  had  made  what  appeared  to  be  his 
or  her  last  pantomimic  gesture,  and  that  the  green 
curtain  rumbled  down  dividing  the  mimic  sorrows 
of  the  stage  from  the  real  passion  of  the  pit,  at  that 
moment,  as  if  by  magic,  all  signs  of  hostility  ceased. 
Tin  whistles  were  silenced,  brandished  bludgeons 
and  lifted  canes  were  lowered,  antagonists  paused 
in  the  very  instant  of  putting  in  an  ugly  left,  damaged 
garments  were  recaptured  and  were  hurriedly  re- 
sumed, missing  wigs  hastily  sought  for,  places  re- 
occupied,  and  something  of  the  ordinary  demeanor  of 
a  well-bred  pit  restored.  At  the  same  time  the  sated 
spectators  in  boxes  and  balcony  resumed  their 
sanity  and  their  seats  and  their  customary  decorous 
manner.  An  ordinary  observer  who  might  happen 
to  enter  the  theater  at  that  moment,  unless  he  were 
keen  to  notice  the  heated  countenances  of  the  pitites 
and  here  and  there  a  man  holding  a  blood-stained 
handkerchief  to  his  countenance,  might  not  be  aware 
that  anything  out  of  the  common  was  toward. 
329 


VI 

MR.  HERITAGE'S  VISITOR 

"QO  the  high  jinks  go  on,"  Mr.  Bowley  observed. 
O  "Why,  even  the  presence  of  the  Prince  Regent 
to-night  has  done  nothing  to  allay  the  feud." 

Mr.  Shadd  tickled  his  chin  thoughtfully  with  the 
top  of  his  pencil.  "What  amazes  me,"  he  said, 
"is  why  old  Heritage  goes  on  with  it." 

Bowley  nodded  agreement  with  Mr.  Shadd's 
amazement.  "He  swears  he  will  never  give  way," 
he  said,  "and  that  he  doesn't  care  how  much  it 
costs." 

Mr.  Shadd's  look  of  thoughtfulness  deepened. 
"It  certainly  is  odd,"  he  said,  "for  on  the  first  night 
old  Heritage  seemed  in  a  mortal  funk,  and  I  thought 
he  would  undoubtedly  throw  up  the  sponge  the  next 
day." 

Mr.  Bowley  laughed  and  was  about  to  complete 
a  sentence  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Heritage  was  a  rum 
customer,  when  a  warning  glance  from  Mr.  Shadd 
stayed  him.  Mr.  Shadd  was  seated  so  that  he  could 
see  the  door,  and  he  saw  the  handle  turn.  Now 
the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Heritage  appeared  in  the 
opening.  Behind  him,  faint  and  far  off,  like  ances- 
33° 


MR.    HERITAGE'S    VISITOR 

tral  voices  prophesying  war,  came  a  fresh  breath  of 
the  distant  fury.  Mr.  Heritage  himself  did  not 
appear  to  be  at  all  distressed.  He  greeted  his  vis- 
itors with  a  certain  amount  of  cordiality,  for  Shadd, 
of  The  Whistle,  and  Bowley,  of  The  Scourge, 
were  men  to  be  reckoned  with,  and,  under  the  troub- 
led conditions,  he  had  given  them  the  run  of  the 
theater.  In  reply  to  their  queries  he  replied  that  he 
was  no  whit  distressed  by  the  persistence  of  the 
riots.  He  damned  the  rogues  freely  and  fully 
enough,  but  he  insisted  that  nothing  would  induce 
him  to  give  way  an  inch  before  the  clamors  of  the 
hydra. 

"In  the  cause  of  justice,"  he  protested,  "in  the 
higher  interests  of  the  drama,  I  am  prepared  to 
suffer." 

As  he  spoke  he  aired  the  nobility  of  Laocoon 
grappling  with  the  serpent.  "A  masterpiece  shall 
not  be  cried  down  by  ignorance  and  insensibility 
so  long  as  I  can  afford  to  defend  it." 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Heritage,"  Shadd  commented 
with  a  sneer.  "On  your  honor,  sir,  as  between 
man  and  man,  is  'The  Buried  City'  a  masterpiece  ?" 

"You  have  seen  it,  sir,"  Mr.  Heritage  answered 
stiffly;  "you  can  judge  for  yourself." 

"That  is  all  I  have  done,"  Shadd  answered 
with  unwonted  and  reluctant  truthfulness.  "Your 
damned  pit  has  never  allowed  me  to  hear  a  word  of 
it.  But  regarding  it  purely  as  a  pantomime,  hang 
me  if  I  can  make  head  or  tail  of  it." 
331 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

"It's  a  rigmarole,"  Bowley  shouted,  quite  uncon- 
scious that  he  was  making  an  ass  of  himself.  "That's 
what  I  call  it,  a  rigmarole." 

Mr.  Heritage  drew  himself  up  and  regarded  the 
two  journalists  with  the  look  which  he  felt  would  be 
appropriate  to  Caesar  at  the  moment  when  he  de- 
cided to  cross  the  Rubicon  or  Hannibal  when  he 
decided  to  cross  the  Alps. 

"Opinions  differ,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  coldly. 
"  I  have  my  opinion,  and  I  stand  by  it,  and  no  noisy 
mob  shall  bluster  me  out  of  it." 

Bowley  dimpled  his  pasty  face  with  a  hideous 
grin,  and  made  a  gesture  as  of  applauding  the  heroic 
manager  with  his  fat,  damp,  dirty  hands. 

"I  never  thought  you  were  that  kind  of  man,  Mr. 
Heritage,"  he  said.  "I  always  took  you  to  be  the 
ideal  man  of  business." 

Mr.  Bowley  hoped  that  Mr.  Heritage  would  wince 
at  his  words,  but  to  his  disappointment  Mr.  Heritage 
merely  smiled  smugly. 

"  So  I  am,  sir,  so  I  am,"  he  insisted.  "  But  in  this 
instance  business  and  pleasure  are  twins." 

"I  don't  quite  see  that,  Mr.  Heritage,"  Shadd 
said  with  a  sneer. 

Mr.  Heritage  caughthim  up  briskly.  "Don't  you  ?" 
he  cried  proudly.  "  Every  night  we  play  to  capacity." 

Mr.  Bowley  looked  reprovingly  at  the  great  man. 
"But  the  scandal,"  he  suggested. 

Mr.  Heritage  answered  him,  briskly  and  briefly. 
"Oh,  damn  the  scandal!"  he  said. 
332 


MR.    HERITAGE'S    VISITOR 

Mr.  Bowley  and  Mr.  Shadd  eyed  the  manager 
with  a  curious  interest.  Here  was  a  Heritage  that 
was  new  to  them,  a  Heritage  that  to  all  appear- 
ance was  perfectly  sane,  and  yet  that  really  seemed 
to  be  indifferent  to  riot  so  long  as  he  championed  a 
deserving  work  of  art.  What  could  be  the  meaning 
of  it  ?  The  problem  perplexed  them. 

"What  news  from  the  seat  of  war  ?"  Mr.  Shadd 
asked  carelessly,  to  cover  his  surprise. 

"The  curtain  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes," 
Mr.  Heritage  answered.  "Of  course  not  a  word  of 
the  act  has  been  heard,  as  usual.  Half  the  Fancy 
are  fighting  it  out  in  the  pit  under  the  very  eyes  of  the 
Prince  Regent." 

"I  didn't  see  much  of  it  to-night,"  Shadd  ad- 
mitted. "The  moment  that  I  saw  that  the  presence 
of  His  Royal  Highness  made  no  difference  to  the 
rioters  I  came  in  here  to  write  my  account  quietly 
and  get  to  bed  early.  How  does  His  Royal  High- 
ness seem  to  take  it  ?" 

Mr.  Heritage  smiled  a  broad  smile.  "Why," 
he  said,  "he  laughs  and  claps  as  if  he  were  at  a  cock- 
fight." But  he  stopped  laughing  for  a  minute  when 
he  saw  Mr.  Brummell  in  the  Dandies'  Omnibus. 
Lord  Byron  is  here,  too,  and  Hook — all  the  tribe, 
begad." 

While  this  edifying  conversation  was  being  carried 

on  there  came  to  Mr.  Heritage's  ears  a  sound  which 

he  had  expected  to  hear.     It  came  from  behind  the 

picture  of  Talma  and  seemed  to  be  a  faint  scratching 

333 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

noise.  It  was  plain  to  Mr.  Heritage's  accustomed 
sense,  though  it  did  not  attract  the  attention  of  either 
Mr.  Bowley  or  Mr.  Shadd.  It  acted  upon  Mr. 
Heritage  as  an  imperative  signal  that  summoned 
him  to  be  alone.  Mr.  Heritage  lost  no  time  in 
making  it  plain  to  the  pair  of  journalists  that  he  was 
more  in  need  of  their  room  than  their  company. 
But  he  contrived  to  gild  the  pill,  to  temper  the  grief 
of  parting.  He  went  to  a  desk  that  stood  on  a  small 
side  table,  unlocked  it,  and  drew  forth  two  small 
paper  packages,  which  he  placed  in  his  waistcoat 
pockets.  Then  he  locked  the  desk,  and,  turning, 
addressed  his  unsavory  guests  again. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "His  Royal  Highness  has 
intimated  to  me  that  on  the  conclusion  of  the  next 
act  he  will  probably  do  me  the  honor  of  visiting  my 
room  and  partaking  of  a  little  refreshment  in  the 
company  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  usually 
frequent  it.  Under  the  circumstances,  therefore,  I 
think  it  must  be  evident  that  I  am  compelled  to 
wish  you  good  evening." 

"I  met  His  Royal  Highness,"  Bowley  observed, 
"once  at  a  turn-up  at  Sam  Dango's.  His  Royal 
Highness,  who  had  been  drinking,  was  good  enough 
to  ask  me  to  stand  out  of  the  way  and  be  damned  to 
me." 

"I  met  His  Royal  Highness,"  said  Shadd,  "one 

night  at  Luker's  oyster-shop  in  the  Haymarket.     I 

was  there  on  business  working  up  a  case  against 

young  Lord  Lustleigh.     His  Royal  Highness  noticed 

334 


MR.    HERITAGE'S    VISITOR 

me,  I  know,  for  he  whispered  something  to  Hellgate 
Barrymore,  who  was  with  him,  and  the  pair  laughed 
heartily." 

The  two  journalists  seemed  to  be  much  pleased 
by  their  recollections,  which,  however,  failed  to  im- 
press Mr.  Heritage. 

"Wherever  you  may  have  met  His  Royal  High- 
ness," he  said,  dryly, "you  are  not  going  to  meet  him 
here.  Good-night,  Shadd;  good-night,  Bowley." 

As  he  spoke  these  words  of  farewell  his  fingers 
traveled  to  his  waistcoat  pockets,  and  as  he  clasped 
the  two  journalists  successively  by  the  hands  he 
dexterously  transferred  into  the  palm  of  each  one  of 
the  small  packets  that  he  had  taken  from  his  desk. 
Mr.  Bowley  felt  the  pleasant  pressure  of  coins,  Mr. 
Shadd  felt  the  pleasant  pressure  of  coins.  The  pair 
murmured  their  farewells  and  rapidly  departed  by 
the  passage  that  conducted  to  the  stage-door. 

When  they  had  gone  Mr.  Heritage  crossed  the 
room  toward  the  picture  of  Talma,  and  touched  the 
spring.  The  picture  moved  slowly  back,  and  Gra- 
nia  O'Hara  entered  the  room. 


VII 

NEWS    INDEED 

was  looking  pale,  and  even  a  little 
care-worn,  which  seemed  strange  in  one  on 
whose  cheeks  the  blush  of  Irish  roses  had  bloomed 
so  bravely.  But  her  manner  was  gay  as  she  smiled 
on  Mr.  Heritage,  who  salaamed  to  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "how  is  it  going  ?" 

Mr.  Heritage  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Worse 
than  ever,"  he  said  with  a  cheerfulness  that  he 
would  certainly  not  have  worn  if  the  rioting  had  cost 
him  as  much  as  one  red  penny.  He  was  silent  for  a 
moment  while  he  aided  Grania  to  disembarrass  her- 
self of  her  cloak,  and  handed  her  to  a  chair.  Then 
he  asked  her  the  question  which  he  had  asked  her 
every  night  since  the  second  night  of  the  perform- 
ance of  "The  Buried  City." 

"You  still  mean  to  go  on  ?" 

Grania  was  looking  very  dainty  and  fair  in  an 
evening  gown  of  a  chastened  gorgeousness  that  had 
just  been  the  most  admired  garment  at  the  dinner 
at  the  great  house  which  she  had  quitted  to  come  to 
the  Rotundo.  She  laughed  at  the  manager's  un- 
necessary formality. 

336 


NEWS    INDEED 

"My  dear  Mr.  Heritage,"  she  said,  "we  will  go 
on  until  we  win  and  secure  a  hearing  for  'The 
Buried  City/" 

"It  will  take  some  time,  I'm  thinking,"  Mr. 
Heritage  said,  gloomily.  "The  other  side  doesn't 
seem  to  get  a  bit  tired  of  the  game,  and  they  spend 
money  like  water." 

"They  haven't  got  as  much  money  as  we  have," 
Grania  said,  belligerently.  Mr.  Heritage  liked  to 
hear  her  use  the  first  person  plural  in  this  way.  It 
gave  him  for  the  time  a  personal  interest  in  Crania's 
millions,  and  so  long  as  the  partnership  with  the 
pretty  heiress  existed  he  was  running  his  theater  for 
nothing. 

"How  is  he  taking  it?"  Grania  asked.  'He' 
meant  Dennis  Tirowen,  whom  Grania  had  not  seen 
since  the  wild  night  at  Ashford  House. 

Mr.  Heritage  smiled.  "He  is  as  warlike  as  ever, 
our  dear  author,"  Mr.  Heritage  answered.  "Every 
night  he  wants,  when  the  noise  begins,  to  take  off  his 
coat  and  bear  a  hand  in  the  battle.  But  I  have  per- 
suaded him  that  the  nobler  part  is  to  stand  aloof  in 
Olympian  disdain." 

Grania  could  not  help  smiling.  Her  mind's  eye 
pictured  Dennis  being  greatly  taken  by  Mr.  Heri- 
tage's high-sounding  phrases,  and  molding  himself 
Olympianly  in  obedience  to  the  hint. 

"He  has  no  suspicion,"  she  questioned,  "that  I 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  business  ?" 

"Not  the  slightest,"  Mr.  Heritage  replied,  and 
337 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

would  have  said  more;  but  at  that  moment  the  great 
doors  opened  to  admit  the  Prince  Regent  and  the 
mob  of  fashionable  folk  that  were  privileged  to 
follow  on  his  heels  to  the  sacred  seclusion  of  Mr. 
Heritage's  private  room.  Another  act  had  just 
come  to  an  end,  and  no  noise  was  audible  except  the 
noise  of  the  eagerly  speaking  voices  of  the  Prince's  set. 

His  Royal  Highness,  the  moment  he  caught  sight 
of  Grania,  advanced  toward  her  with  his  most 
impressive  manner.  Her  presence  there  was  in  no 
wise  a  surprise  to  him,  for  he  had  heard  and  been 
diverted  by  the  story  of  the  scene  at  Ashford  House, 
and  he  assumed,  not  without  amusement,  that  the 
young  lady  still  cherished  a  regard  for  her  ill-man- 
nered lover.  Grania  dipped  the  due  curtsey,  but 
the  Prince  stopped  her,  taking  her  hand  and  lifting  it 
to  his  lips  as  he  bowed  over  it.  Around  the  room 
the  fashionable  folk  ranged  themselves  and  watched 
the  scene  with  admiration.  At  least  the  most  of 
them  admired,  or  seemed  to  admire,  but  My  Lord 
Byron  smiled  sourly,  having,  as  was  generally  known, 
no  great  regard  for  the  Prince  Regent. 

"My  dear  Miss  O'Hara,"  the  Prince  said,  "I 
should,  no  doubt,  have  occasion  to  congratulate  you 
on  the  merits  of  your  compatriot's  production,  but 
the  rascals  in  the  house  won't  let  me  hear  a  single 
word  of  it." 

Grania  dipped  another  curtsey,  disappearing  this 
time  beneath  the  waters  of  formality.     She  rose  to 
the  surface  again,  and  smiled. 
338 


NEWS    INDEED 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "that  Your  Royal  High- 
ness's  known  taste  and  discrimination  would  lead 
you  to  applaud  the  piece  if  you  made  its  ac- 
quaintance under  happier  conditions." 

The  Prince  Regent  looked  ineffably  gracious. 
Always  an  eager  feeder  upon  praise  from  every 
offered  platter,  he  liked  best  to  be  fed  by  the  pretty 
hand  of  a  pretty  woman. 

"The  town,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "expresses  much 
surprise  at  the  courage  and  pertinacity  of  our  friend 
Heritage  in  facing  this  continued  demonstration." 
He  paused  and  looked  knowing;  then  he  con- 
tinued. "A  little  bird  whispers  to  me  that  a  certain 
charming  young  Irish  lady,  who  shall  be  absolutely 
nameless  and  guessless,  supplies  him  with  the  sinews 
of  war." 

Grania  pierced  the  proposed  veil  of  anonymity 
frankly. 

"I  come  of  a  fighting  line,  Your  Royal  Highness," 
she  said,  simply. 

His  Royal  Highness  smiled.  "To  be  sure,"  he 
said.  "We  must  not  forget  that  you  are  the  most 
dangerous  rebel  in  our  dominions." 

Suddenly  a  frown  dissipated  the  smile  on  the 
august  countenance  as  His  Highness  caught  sight  of 
a  comely  gentleman,  exquisitely  dressed,  who,  with 
an  air  of  admirable  nonchalance,  was  at  that  mo- 
ment entering  Mr.  Heritage's  apartment.  "Ah," 
he  said  in  a  vexed  voice,  "here  comes  that  imperti- 
nent fellow  Brummell." 

339 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

Mr.  Redacre  asserts  in  his  privately  printed 
"Memoirs"  that  it  was  on  this  occasion  that  Mr. 
Brummell  made  use  of  the  historical  expression 
with  which  his  name  is  always  associated.  He 
asserts  that  when  His  Royal  Highness  saw  the  Beau 
entering  Mr.  Heritage's  apartment  and  advancing 
toward  Grania,  the  Prince  uttered  some  impatient 
expression  of  disapproval  and  turned  away  from  the 
young  lady  with  a  frowning  face.  The  Beau  in  all 
the  majesty  of  his  most  elaborate  attire  and  all  the 
calm  unconsciousness  of  the  existence  of  those  whom 
he  desired  to  ignore  moved  serenely  up  to  Grania, 
and,  after  paying  her  the  most  elaborate  bow,  stood 
looking  directly  after  the  retreating  figure  of  the 
Prince,  and  in  a  tone  of  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
by  all  that  were  near,  including  the  Regent  himself, 
asked,  "Who  is  your  fat  friend  ?" 

Mr.  Redacre  further  asserts  that  the  young  lady's 
native  Irish  sense  of  humor  was  so  strong  that,  as  she 
afterward  admitted,  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her 
prevent  her  face  from  smiling,  and  she  was  not,  there- 
fore, able  to  address  to  Mr.  Brummell  with  the  suffi- 
cient gravity  the  reproof  that  he  needed.  In  any 
case,  Miss  O'Hara  had  a  liking  for  Mr.  Brummell, 
and  she  had  reason  to  believe  that  in  the  feud  be- 
tween him  and  the  Regent  he  was  not  the  original 
offender.  She  always  found  him  amusing,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  and  the  serious  devotion 
which  he  offered  to  the  religion  of  Dandyism  did  not 
seem  to  her  to  be  more  unreasonable  than  any  of 
340 


NEWS    INDEED 

the  other  follies  of  the  hour.  To  do  this  one  thing 
well  was  apparently  all  that  lay  in  Mr.  Brummeirs 
power,  and  to  the  girl's  energetic  spirit  it  seemed 
better  to  do  something  than  nothing. 

Therefore,  as  His  Royal  Highness  had  left  her, 
she  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  not  continue  to 
converse  with  Mr.  Brummell.  If  it  were  true  as 
people  whispered  that  his  glorious  reign  was  drifting 
to  a  close,  that  the  clutching  fingers  of  care  were 
gripping  his  throat  through  all  the  folds  of  that 
nobly  tied  cravat,  all  the  more  reason  for  her  to  be 
gracious.  If  her  affability  cost  her  the  Prince's 
favor  she  did  not  care  a  rap.  She  would  always  be 
loyal  to  those  she  liked,  and  she  liked  Mr.  Brummell 
a  thousand  times  better  than  she  liked  the  vice-king 
of  Carlton  House.  So  she  listened  and  laughed 
while  Mr.  Brummell  talked,  and  talked  well,  for  he 
was  on  his  mettle  and  flushed  with  his  successful 
impertinence,  when  suddenly  her  attention  and  his 
attention  were  distracted  by  an  unexpected  incident. 

The  Prince  had  turned  to  re-enter  the  theater,  and 
was  actually  about  to  pass  through  the  door,  when 
his  progress  was  arrested.  A  man  hurriedly  entered 
the  room  by  the  entrance  that  led  from  the  front  of 
the  house,  and,  looking  eagerly  around  him,  asked  in 
a  loud  and  anxious  voice  if  His  Royal  Highness  was 
present.  Many  of  those  in  the  room  recognized  the 
new-comer  as  a  high  official  from  the  Foreign  Office, 
and  in  another  moment  the  Prince  Regent,  informed 
by  half  a  dozen  obliging  gentlemen  of  what  was 

23  341 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

happening,  turned  back  and  was  immediately  joined 
by  the  new  arrival.  The  rest  of  the  company  stood 
discreetly  apart  out  of  earshot  while  the  new-comer 
spoke  rapidly  and  excitedly  to  the  Prince,  whose 
sudden  change  of  color  and  unwonted  seriousness 
of  expression  showed  that  something  momentous 
was  being  communicated  to  him. 

That  the  communication  was  momentous  the 
company  were  to  learn  in  a  few  seconds.  When  the 
man  had  done  speaking  the  Prince  stood  for  a 
moment  in  silence,  and  then  turning  to  the  others, 
said:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  news  of  the  utmost 
gravity  has  just  reached  me.  Napoleon  has  escaped 
from  Elba!" 

The  news  came  with  staggering  force  on  all 
present.  His  Royal  Highness  instantly  took  his 
departure,  followed  by  most  of  the  company,  Lord 
Byron  murmuring  sardonically  as  he  took  his  leave 
of  Grania  that  this  new  display  of  activity  on  Na- 
poleon's part  had  entirely  spoiled  the  effect  of  his 
poem  on  the  fall  of  the  Corsican. 

In  a  few  moments  Grania  was  left  alone,  for  while 
the  smart  company  was  scattering  Mr.  Heritage 
made  his  way  to  the  stage,  where  the  curtain  had  not 
long  been  raised  upon  the  last  act.  The  storm  in 
the  pit  was  raging  with  all  its  familiar  violence  when 
Mr.  Heritage,  very  flustered  and  excited,  made  his 
appearance  among  the  players  and  advanced  to  the 
footlights.  Though  he  appealed  for  silence,  his 
voice  could  not  dominate  the  din,  and  for  a  while  he 
342 


NEWS    INDEED 

stood  gesticulating  wildly,  an  inaudible  and  slightly 
ridiculous  figure.  He  succeeded,  however,  after  a 
while  in  making  it  clear  to  those  in  the  front  row  of 
the  pit  that  he  had  important  news  from  abroad  to 
communicate,  and  these  passing  the  word  to  others 
behind  them,  gradually  a  silence  was  obtained. 

In  that  silence  Mr.  Heritage  told  his  news.  Na- 
poleon had  escaped  from  Elba!  The  astonishing 
tidings  entirely  killed  the  spirit  of  riot  as  if  with  the 
single  stroke  of  an  ax.  The  play,  and  its  friends 
and  its  enemies,  were  swamped  and  swallowed  up 
and  forgotten  in  the  thought  of  the  terrible  event  that 
had  taken  place  and  the  terrible  events  that  must 
follow  it.  With  one  accord,  and  as  if  at  a  given,  long- 
expected  signal,  the  whole  of  the  audience  rose  and 
left  the  theater,  without  wasting  a  thought  on  the 
last  act,  which  was  acted  for  a  while  under  unusual 
conditions  of  audibility  to  an  empty  house,  and 
presently  cut  short  peremptorily  by  Mr.  Heritage. 
Anticipation  and  the  pages  of  the  Annual  Recorder 
teach  that  with  the  escape  from  Elba  the  Rotundo 
riots  came  to  an  end.  There  was  no  time  for  small 
controversies  in  the  face  of  the  great  catastrophe 
that  threatened  the  safety  of  Europe  for  a  hundred 
days,  and  that  was  only  diverted  on  the  field  of 
Waterloo. 


VIII 
MR.  POINTDEXTER'S  "HEY,  PRESTO!" 

GRANIA  was  not  long  left  alone.  In  a  little 
while  the  great  doors  opened,  and  Mr.  Point- 
dexter  entered,  bringing  with  him  Dennis  Tirowen, 
firmly  held  by  the  arm.  Dennis  looked  rather  like 
a  captive  under  the  wardership  of  the  iron-faced 
lawyer.  He  seemed  at  once  angry  and  ill  at  ease, 
and  he  looked  sheepishly  at  Grania,  who  smiled 
very  amiably  at  him,  though  she  was  not  a  little 
taken  by  surprise  at  his  sudden  appearance. 

"I  have  brought  here,"  said  Mr.  Pointdexter, 
solemnly,  "a  young  gentleman,  who  in  my  opinion 
and,  as  I  believe,  also  in  his  own,  feels  that  he  has 
something  very  special  to  say  to  you  in  the  way  of 
an  apology." 

He  released  Dennis's  arm  as  he  spoke  and  left 
Dennis  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  seemingly 
rueful  and  ill-tempered,  while  he  advanced  toward 
Grania. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 

most  unfamiliarly  gentle  as  he  spoke,  "it  is  high 

time  that  you  and  this  young  gentleman  came  to 

some  definite  understanding.     There  is  no  time  like 

344 


MR.    POINTDEXTER'S    "HEY,    PRESTO!" 

the  present.     I  shall  wait  in  the  corridor  if  you 
should  chance  to  want  me." 

He  made  her  a  formal  bow  and  withdrew,  leaving 
Grania  and  Dennis  face  to  face. 

Grania  looked  steadily  at  Dennis,  and  the  faintest 
dimple  of  a  smile  lurked  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
But  her  eyes  were  grave  and  curious,  and  they 
examined  Dennis  carefully.  He  certainly  showed 
to  better  advantage  than  the  last  time  she  saw  him, 
swaying  and  lurching  out  of  the  Gold  Room  at 
Ashford  House  on  the  triumphant  arm  of  Lady 
Doubble.  His  face  was  anxious,  even  care-worn, 
but  it  was  clean  from  the  stain  of  drink.  Just  at  the 
moment  it  wore  a  decidedly  sulky  expression  as  he 
stood  there  uncertain  what  to  say.  Grania  spoke  as 
if  nothing  had  happened  amiss  between  them. 

"You  have  been  having  a  stormy  time,  my  poor 
Dennis,"  she  said;  "but  I  think  this  news  will  bring 
calm  with  it." 

"The  calm  is  worse  than  the  storm,"  the  young 
man  cried,  angrily.  "  Just  think  of  it.  Because  a 
political  adventurer  escapes  from  prison  those  idiots 
go  away  and  abandon  my  play.  Friends  or  foes, 
they  are  all  the  same;  it  has  no  longer  any  interest 
for  them.  They  are  only  thinking  of  that  damned 
Corsican." 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear  Dennis,"  Grania  said,  suavely, 
"that  even  I  must  admit  that  the  escape  of  the 
Emperor  is  a  matter  of  more  immediate  moment  to 
the  world  than  your  beautiful  play." 
345 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

"It  shouldn't  be,"  the  young  man  protested, 
vehemently.  "It  shouldn't  be.  Is  there  no  such 
thing  as  art  ?  May  not  a  great  poem  be  of  more 
value  to  the  world  than  the  crimes  of  a  soldier  of 
fortune  ?" 

"Of  course  art  is  a  real  thing,"  Grania  answered, 
quietly.  "And  of  course,  a  great  poem  may  be  of 
more  value  to  the  world  than  a  great  conqueror.  It 
is  possible  indeed  that  hereafter  this  year  may  be 
remembered  in  history  chiefly  as  the  year  which  saw 
the  birth  of  'The  Buried  City.'  But  to  those  that 
are  living  in  it  the  fact  that  Bonaparte  has  escaped 
from  Elba  and  that  he  may  again  conquer  Europe 
seems  to  them  in  their  short-sightedness  a  more 
vital  event." 

Grania  was  not  speaking  satirically;  there  was  no 
sting  in  her  tongue;  she  was  feeling  very  kindly  to 
Dennis,  and  very  sorry  for  Dennis,  but  she  had 
learned  much  since  the  day  of  her  parting  from  him 
over  in  Kerry,  so  many  thousand  years  ago!  The 
only  thing  she  had  not  learned  in  that  great  gap  of 
time  was  to  cease  to  be  in  love  with  him. 

But  Dennis  did  not  understand  Grania.  He  shot 
a  lowering  glance  at  her.  "You  are  making  fun  of 
me,"  he  grumbled. 

Grania  shook  her  head.  "I  am  doing  nothing 
of  the  kind,"  she  vowed.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
very  seriously,  and  I  mean  to  talk  to  you  very  seri- 
ously. This  is  the  second  time  we  have  met  since 
the  day  when  you  set  out  to  seek  your  fortune,  and 
346 


MR.    POINTDEXTER'S    "HEY,   PRESTO!" 

I  stayed  at  home,  and  my  fortune  came  to  seek  me. 
Tell  me,  Dennis,  honestly,  as  between  maid  and 
man,  don't  you  think  that  you  made  a  bit  of  a 
fool  of  yourself  the  last  time  we  met  ?" 

Dennis  squared  his  shoulders  and  faced  her. 
"No,"  he  said,  doggedly,  "no,  and  again  no.  Of 
course  I  was  a  blockhead  to  get  drunk  and  to  spin 
speeches  and  pick  quarrels,  and  to  go  off  with  that 
woman — but  you  know  I  didn't  go  far." 

Grania  knew  it  very  well.  She  had  had  the  story 
from  Mr.  Fenny  and  from  Captain  Loveless;  she 
had  never  been  jealous  of  Lady  Doubble.  She 
nodded,  and  Dennis  went  on. 

"  But  I  was  in  the  right  of  it  when  I  said  what  I 
said  about" — he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then 
continued,  clumsily — "about  what  you  said.  You 
knew  what  I  told  you,  and  you  knew  that  I  told  you 
my  true  thoughts,  and  you  had  no  right  to  try  and 
trap  me  like  that." 

Grania  laughed  a  little  good-humored  laugh,  the 
laugh  of  a  girl  that,  being  wiser  than  he  was,  could 
also  afford  to  be  kinder. 

"You  are  indeed  the  noble  Roman,"  she  said, 
"and  it  served  me  right  for  being  so  unmaidenly, 
for  I  thought  you  would  never  have  the  face  to  deny 
me  once  I  spoke  like  that  before  all  the  people.  But 
I  had  miscalculated  the  greatness  of  your  heart,  my 
Dennis." 

Still  she  was  laughing,  but  she  was  not  laughing 
at  him,  nor  laughing  at  herself,  at  least  not  in  any 
347 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

unkindly  fashion.  She  was  amused,  and  she  showed 
that  she  was  amused,  nothing  more. 

"It  was  my  pride,"  Dennis  answered,  "my  pride, 
that  still  forbids  me  to  do  what  I  am  longing  to  do." 

"And  what  may  that  be  ?"  Grania  asked,  seeing 
that  Dennis  kept  his  peace. 

"To  clasp  you  in  my  arms,"  Dennis  answered, 
fiercely,  "and  call  you  to  be  my  wife.  But  I  can't 
do  it,  Grania,  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  marry  you  while 
you  have  got  all  that  mountain  of  money  behind 
you.  I'll  marry  no  woman  that  I  can't  keep  in 
comfort  with  the  work  of  my  two  hands  and  the 
help  of  my  wits." 

"And  do  you  think  you  could  do  that  same," 
Grania  asked,  "if  I  was  as  poor  as  I  was  on  the  day 
when  we  parted  at  Cloyne  ?" 

"Devil  doubt  it,"  Dennis  answered,  confidently. 
"Why,  I  have  a  tidy  bit  of  money  put  away  at  this 
present,  out  of  what  Mr.  Heritage  has  paid  me,  and 
he  has  promised  me  a  round  sum  down  for  another 
play  that  I  am  to  write  him.  Grania,  my  girl,  if  you 
were  only  what  you  were  on  the  day  when  we  parted 
at  Cloyne  it  is  the  proud  man  I'd  be  to  lay  my  little 
all  at  your  feet,  and  it  is  the  happy  pair  we  would 
make  when  you  had  given  me  'yes*  for  an  answer." 

Grania  looked  at  him  with  a  puckered  forehead 
and  tightly  compressed  lips.  It  would  be  foolish 
of  her  to  deny  to  herself  that  she  liked  her  fine  for- 
tune; but  it  would  be  more  foolish  still  to  deny  that 
she  liked  Dennis  better  than  all  the  fine  fortunes  in 
348 


MR.    POINTDEXTER'S    "HEY,    PRESTO!" 

the  world.  She  did  not  waste  time  in  asking  herself 
why  she  liked  him  so  well.  There  was  the  unchang- 
ing fact  which  nothing  could  alter.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  there  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  she 
tightened  her  mind  to  do  it. 

"Dennis,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  soft  as  she 
spoke,  as  the  soft  west  wind  of  Ireland,  and  sweet  as 
the  breath  of  Irish  meadows,  "are  you  sure  you  love 
me  ?" 

Dennis  looked  back  at  her,  and  there  was  a  light 
on  his  face  that  glorified  it,  smoothing  out  the  sullen- 
ness  and  the  obstinacy  and  the  insane  pride. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  and  he  said  nothing  more;  and 
there  wras  no  need  to  say  anything  more,  for  him  or 
for  her.  Grania  smiled  a  happy  smile.  Then  she 
crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door  and  called  to 
Mr.  Pointdexter,  who  was  waiting  in  the  distance 
with  the  tranquil  air  of  a  man  who  was  prepared  to 
wait  for  a  century. 

"Dear  Mr.  Pointdexter/'  she  called,  "will  you 
please  come  in  ?" 

Mr.  Pointdexter  came  in  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  and  stood  in  front  of  it,  looking  at  the  pair 
with  a  gaze  that  meant  anything  or  nothing,  as  you 
chose  to  interpret  it.  "Well  ?"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Pointdexter,"  said  Grania,  "Dennis  and  I 
understand  each  other." 

"At  last?"  Mr.  Pointdexter  questioned,  dryly. 
Grania  shook  her  head. 

"Dennis  and  I  have  always  understood  each 
349 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

other/'  she  answered,  "but  we  have  both  of  us 
learned  something  since  we  left  the  kingdom  of 
Kerry.  I  am  going  to  marry  Dennis  and  Dennis  is 
going  to  marry  me." 

"The  one  proposition,"  said  Mr.  Pointdexter, 
calmly,  "would  seem  to  suggest  the  other.  I  am 
glad  to  hear  it.  But  I  understood  that  there  was  a 
little  difficulty." 

"There  was  a  little  difficulty,"  Grania  admitted. 
"But  we  have  got  over  it.  I  am  not  going  to  be 
rich  any  more.  I  am  going  to  give  all  my  money 
away,  every  penny  of  it.  You  must  arrange  that 
for  me." 

"I  must  arrange  that  for  you!"  Mr.  Pointdexter 
echoed,  with  the  necessary  grammatical  alteration. 
He  seemed  amused,  as  far  as  it  was  ever  possible  to 
make  a  sure  guess  at  Mr.  Pointdexter's  feelings. 

"Yes,"  said  Grania,  firmly,  while  Dennis  gazed  at 
her  in  rapt  admiration.  "It  cannot  be  difficult  to 
do,  even  with  as  much  money  as  mine.  Then  I  will 
marry  Dennis,  and  Dennis  will  make  money  for  us 
both." 

"That  is  very  pretty,"  Mr.  Pointdexter  said, 
quietly.  Then  he  turned  to  Dennis.  "You  are 
quite  willing,"  he  asked,  "that  this  girl  should  make 
this  sacrifice  for  your  sake  ?" 

"It  isn't  a  sacrifice,"  Grania  interpolated.  Mr. 
Pointdexter  took  no  heed  of  her,  but  waited  for 
Dennis's  answer. 

"I   am  willing,"   Dennis  answered,  slowly,   "if 


MR.    POINTDEXTER'S    "HEY,    PRESTO!" 

Crania  cares  enough  for  me  to  make  it.  I  will  make 
a  home  for  my  wife,  if  it  be  no  better  than  a  cottage. 
I  will  not  live  in  a  corner  of  my  wife's  castle." 

"Now  you  see,  Mr.  Pointdexter,"  said  Grania, 
"that  it  is  all  settled,  and  there  is  no  need  to  discuss 
the  matter  any  more."  She  stretched  out  her  arms 
with  a  smile.  "I  feel  freer  already,"  she  declared. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  still  need  for  discussion," 
Mr.  Pointdexter  said,  calmly.  "The  plan  you  pro- 
pose is  delightfully  poetic,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it 
can't  be  done." 

"May  I  ask  why  not  ?"  Grania  said;  and  it  must 
be  admitted  that  there  was  an  unfamiliar  note  of 
irritation  in  her  questioning  voice.  Let  it  be  re- 
membered to  her  credit  that  she  had  been  so  used 
since  she  came  into  her  queendom  to  unquestioning 
obedience  to  her  trivialest  whim,  so  confident  always 
to  find  grave  Mr.  Pointdexter  blandly  ready  to  ap- 
prove her  every  impulse,  that  the  unexpected  change 
nettled  her. 

"Certainly,  my  dear  child,"  Mr.  Pointdexter 
answered,  and  Grania  was  not  too  surprised  by  his 
first  refusal  of  her  wishes  not  to  note  the  unusual 
endearment  of  address.  "I  brought  our  young 
friend  here  to  make  his  apology.  Now  I  find  that  it 
is  time  to  make  mine.  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  been 
deceiving  you,  my  dear." 

Grania  stared  at  him  with  wide  eyes  of  wonder. 
Mr.  Pointdexter  had  always  been  enigmatical,  but 
now  he  was  the  very  Sphinx.  Dennis  stared,  too, 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

puzzled  and  worried.  "The  Buried  City"  seemed 
to  be  very  much  buried  now. 

"I  hope  and  think  that  you  will  forgive  me,"  Mr. 
Pointdexter  continued,  "for,  indeed,  I  believe  that 
you  have  enjoyed  yourself.  But  I  must  tell  you  that 
you  have  no  fortune  to  deal  with  in  the  manner  that 
you  propose." 

Grania  listened  dully,  as  one  listens  on  a  drowsy 
day  to  unexpected  thunder.  "I  have  no  fortune  ?" 
she  gasped. 

"No,  and  yes,"  Mr.  Pointdexter  answered.  "I 
told  you  the  truth  when  I  told  you  that  your  uncle 
made  a  large  fortune,  and  that  he  had  bequeathed 
it  to  you.  But  I  did  not  tell  you  the  truth  when  I 
told  you  that  your  uncle  was  dead." 

Grania  felt  for  a  moment  as  if  the  room  were  reel- 
ing about  her.  Then  with  a  strenuous  effort  she 
recovered  her  senses. 

"My  uncle  is  alive  ?"  she  said.  Mr.  Pointdexter 
nodded  his  head  very  solemnly. 

"Your  uncle  is  alive,"  he  repeated.  "And  I  con- 
fess that  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  say  as  much.  I  am 
Phelim  O'Hara." 

This  time  there  was  no  hesitation  in  Crania's 
action.  She  seemed  to  read  on  the  strong,  stern  face 
what  the  strong,  stern  man  would  like  her  to  do,  and 
she  did  it.  In  a  moment  she  was  in  his  arms  and 
clasped  in  his  firm  embrace. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Phelim!"  she  cried;  and  then  looking 
up  into  that  stern,  strong  face,  now  suddenly  softened 
352 


MR.    POINTDEXTER'S    "HEY,    PRESTO!" 

to  quite  another  kind  of  countenance,  tender  and 
gentle,  and  filled  with  a  fierce  and  melancholy 
affection,  she  cried,  "Why,  why,  why?" 

With  Grania  in  his  arms  and  Dennis  a  gaping 
auditor,  Mr.  Pointdexter,  or,  rather,  Phelim  O'Hara, 
told  his  story.  He  told  it  very  simply  and  straightly, 
making  no  defense  of  his  conduct,  either  in  the  past 
or  in  the  present,  but  just  setting  forth  a  plain  tale  in 
plain  words.  He  told  how  after  the  red  ruin  of 
Ninety-eight  he  had  made  his  way  to  America,  and 
how  in  the  young  Republic  fortune  that  had  frowned 
upon  him  before,  in  love  and  in  war,  now  smiled  on 
him  in  peace.  Sixteen  years  after  his  flight  across 
the  Atlantic  he  found  himself  the  sole  master  of 
enormous  wealth.  The  story  of  how  he  amassed  it 
he  promised  to  tell  his  hearers  at  another  time.  It 
was  a  history  by  itself,  that  called  for  leisure  to  nar- 
rate its  wonders.  Through  all  those  sixteen  years 
of  strange  adventures  and  increasing  store  of  gold 
he  had  cherished  in  his  heart  nothing  but  bitter 
memories  of  the  woman  he  had  once  longed  to  wed, 
of  the  brother  he  had  once  sought  to  slay.  Then 
on  a  sudden  came  sickness,  great  and  grievous  sick- 
ness, and  the  strong  man  struggling  for  his  life  re- 
ceived as  he  believed  a  summons  to  make  amends 
for  his  sins.  He  caused  inquiries  to  be  made  in 
Ireland,  from  which  he  learned  that  his  brother's 
widow  and  his  own  old  love  was  dead  and  that  her 
child  lived  in  poverty  upon  the  Cloyne  estate.  Then 
the  wild  idea  came  into  his  head  of  giving  out  that 
353 


THE    FAIR    IRISH    MAID 

he  was  dead,  of  visiting  this  unknown  niece  in  the 
seeming  of  a  lawyer,  and  seeing  how  the  girl  would 
carry  herself  when  she  found  herself  entrusted  with 
the  command  of  countless  money.  At  the  time  the 
war  with  England  was  drawing  to  its  close.  He  had 
influence  enough  to  be  able  to  obtain  permission,  as 
Mr.  Pointdexter — which  was  his  own  lawyer's  name 
— to  accompany  to  Europe  the  commissioners  ap- 
pointed for  the  settlement  of  terms  of  peace. 

"The  rest,  my  dear  Grania,"  he  said,  "you  al- 
ready know.  I  have  played  the  part  of  fairy  god- 
father to  a  very  lovely  Cinderella,  and  my  child  has 
not  been  spoiled  by  opulence." 

He  turned  to  Dennis.  "Frankly,  my  young 
friend,"  he  said,  "you  are  much  to  be  congratulated 
upon  having  won  the  love  of  a  girl  who  is  willing  to 
fling  aside  a  fabulous  fortune  for  your  sake.  No 
less  frankly  I  must  say  that  I  do  not  think  you  are 
worthy  of  such  a  sacrifice  or  of  her.  But  there 
must  be  the  possibility  of  better  things  in  you  or  she 
would  never  have  chosen  you  for  her  mate.  Hence- 
forth she  will  be  to  me  as  a  daughter,  and  you  shall 
be  to  me  as  a  son,  and  we  will  all  live  together  in  the 
New  World.  You  shall  learn  to  make  your  way, 
since  that  is  your  wish.  Phelim  O'Hara  has  made 
a  new  will,  and  this  time  he  bequeathes  his  fortune 
to  Dennis  Tirowen  and  Grania,  his  wife,  and  the 
children  of  their  union.  I  will  leave  you  for  a  while, 
for  I  have  matters  to  settle  with  Mr.  Heritage,  and  I 
make  no  doubt  that  you  will  have  much  to  say  to 
354 


MR.    POINTDEXTER'S    "HEY,    PRESTO!" 

each  other.  I  hope  that  Crania  will  be  sensible 
enough  to  tell  you  how  heavily  you  are  indebted 
to  her  love  and  to  her  loyalty.  If  she  fails  to  do  so 
I  will  take  that  charge  upon  myself  hereafter." 

Dennis  and  Grania  had  much  to  say  to  each  other, 
so  much  that  it  seemed  that  only  a  few  moments 
had  passed  by  when  Mr.  Phelim  O'Hara  returned  to 
the  room  to  say  that  it  was  very  late  and  that  the  car- 
riage was  waiting  at  the  stage-door. 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000033268    4 


